In the mean time, he thought of the work which had been offered him in Brooklyn, and resolved, as a matter of necessity, to go over and see if he could not effect an engagement. The new houses he remembered were on Fourth Avenue, in Brooklyn. He did not know exactly where, but presumed he could find out.
He crossed Fulton Ferry, luckily having two cents about him. Fourth Avenue is situated in that part of Brooklyn which is known as Gowanus, and is at least two miles from the ferry. The fare by the horse-cars was six cents, but James Martin had only three left after paying his ferriage. He could not make up his mind to walk, however, and got into the Greenwood cars, resolved to trust his luck. The cars started, and presently the conductor came round.
Martin put his hand into his pocket unconcernedly, and, starting in apparent surprise, felt in the other.
"Some rascal must have picked my pocket," he said. "My pocket-book is gone."
"How much money did you have in it?" asked his next neighbor.
"Forty-five dollars and twenty-five cents," said Martin, with unblushing falsehood. "It's pretty hard on a poor man."
The conductor looked rather incredulous, observing his passenger's red nose, and that his breath was mingled with fumes of whiskey.
"I'm sorry for you if you've lost your pocket-book," he said; "but can't you raise six cents?"
Martin again thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out three cents.
"That's all I've got left," he said. "You'll have to take me for half price."