There came no answer.
Having traveled two blocks south, they crossed the street to find themselves facing a vacant lot. There, amid piles of broken bricks and rusty heaps of sheet-iron, many camp fires burned. Moving about from fire to fire, or sitting huddled about them, were men. These were more ragged and forlorn, if that were possible, than those she had seen upon the street.
Then, with the force of a bullet, truth entered the very heart of her being. These men were derelicts. These piles of broken bricks and rusting iron were their homes; these camp fires their kitchens. Soon the young pigeon would be simmering in a great tin can filled with water.
“Wait!” she cried, leaping forward and seizing the short man by the arm. “Don’t—don’t cook him! I will pay you for him. Here! Here is a dollar. Is that enough? If not, I have another.”
Blinking back at her in surprise, taking in her long coat, her jaunty cap, the man stared at her in silence. Then, as the bearded man hurried up, he blinked at him in turn.
“I didn’t mean to eat him,” he protested. “Honest I didn’t. But if you want him—” he eyed the dollar bill eagerly “—if you want him, here he is.”
Thrusting the pigeon into Jeanne’s hands, he seized the bill and muttered:
“A dollar—a dollar, a whole cartwheel, one big iron man! I didn’t know there was one left in the world!” He seemed about to shed tears.
As he turned his face up to Jeanne’s she noticed that he had but one eye.
“What’s your name?” the bearded one asked.