"So you've had poor luck," he remarked, by way of starting the conversation.
"Yes," grumbled Martin, "you may say that. Things have all been ag'inst me. It's a pretty hard rub for a poor man to get a livin' here."
"Just so," said the other. "What's your business?"
"I'm a carpenter."
"And you can't find work?"
"No," said Martin. "Besides," he added, after a pause, "my health aint very good. Hard work don't agree with me."
He might have said that hard drinking did not agree with him, and this would have been rather nearer the truth. But he was afraid his new friend would offer to find him employment as a carpenter, and for this he was not very anxious. There had been a time when he was content to work early and late, for good wages, but he had of late years led such a shiftless and vagabond life, that honest industry had no more attraction for him, and he preferred to get his living by hook or crook, in fact in any way he could, rather than take the most direct path to a good living by working hard for it.
"What is your name?"
"James Martin. What's yours?"
"Mine," said the stranger, pausing, and fixing his eyes thoughtfully upon Martin; "well, you may call me Smith."