The old man dug his spade into the wet dirt. Then he pitched a huge clod into the pit. It struck with a resounding bang on the lid of the box. In a few minutes the hole was filled. The old man stuck the numbered stick into the ground at the head of the mound.
Stretching away in long rows on either side, hundreds of other similar numbered sticks jutted from unkempt mounds.
The old digger shouldered his spade and started slowly to leave the scene. Then he stopped and slowly surveyed his work.
"A swell one, huh," he half muttered to himself. "Well, so was lots of the rest of them that's out here now—once."
Then, with a sigh, he started on his long trudge across the muddy meadow towards the buildings of the poorhouse.
It was the night of the same day.
The myriad of incandescents in the "red light" district lighted that section of the city as though it were day. Drunken crowds of fashionably dressed men caroused about the streets, hurling vile names at persons they met. Down at the edge of the district a fight was waging. A large crowd had collected. A blue-coated policeman dashed towards the combatants, club in hand. There was a wild scramble in all directions.
In the shadows of a big building a man was crouching. His cap was pulled low about his eyes to shield him from recognition.