“Gee, but it’s cold!”
They peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. A grocery man drove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. This started some words upon grocery men and the cost of food in general.
“I see meat’s gone up,” said one.
“If there wuz war, it would help this country a lot.”
The line was growing rapidly. Already there were fifty or more, and those at the head, by their demeanour, evidently congratulated themselves upon not having so long to wait as those at the foot. There was much jerking of heads, and looking down the line.
“It don’t matter how near you get to the front, so long as you’re in the first twenty-five,” commented one of the first twenty-five. “You all go in together.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Hurstwood, who had been so sturdily displaced.
“This here Single Tax is the thing,” said another. “There ain’t going to be no order till it comes.”
For the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling, glancing, and beating their arms.
At last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared. She only looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one by one, passed in, until twenty-five were counted. Then she interposed a stout arm, and the line halted, with six men on the steps. Of these the ex-manager was one. Waiting thus, some talked, some ejaculated concerning the misery of it; some brooded, as did Hurstwood. At last he was admitted, and, having eaten, came away, almost angered because of his pains in getting it.