“I see.”
“Old Lockman used to say there was too many glass works,” the barkeeper added. “An' the fellers he bought out went an' built more. So there you are.”
There was a pause. “I'm coming back in the morning,” said Samuel doggedly.
“All right,” said the other, with a smile—“if you don't forget it.” Then a couple of customers entered. “Run along now,” said he.
And Samuel went—the more readily because he realized that he had been all this time in a saloon, a place of mystery and wickedness to him.
He started down the street again. A fine cold rain had begun to fall. What was he to do?
He felt warm, having feasted. But there was no use in getting wet. He glanced into the doorways as he passed, and seeing a dark and empty one, crouched inside.
Lockmanville! What a curious coincidence! And there were hundreds in the town out of work. It seemed a strange and terrible thing. Could it be that they let people starve as he was starving—people they knew? Could it be that they went on about their business and paid no attention to such a thing?
He must get out, they told him. But how? Would the railroad take him, if he explained? Or would the people on the way give him work? He had got some food at last, but only by begging. And was he expected to beg?
There came footsteps outside. A man strode into the doorway and took hold of the door and tried it. Then he turned to go out. Samuel moved his foot out of the way.