It was just as I thought. She has demanded her money—and I have but fifteen cents! I helped a man up with a trunk and got ten.—She told me that I would have to get out. It is clear to-night. I shall sleep somewhere in the Park. I can not write any more.
May 31st.
I got some work to do after all—at the height of my despair. I am giving out samples of a hitherto unequaled brand of soap.
It was yesterday morning, I met one of the men and asked him where he got the job. He said they wanted more men, so I got on a car and rode down there in haste. I made fifty cents yesterday, for half a day, and a dollar to-day. Thank God!
I spent the night before last in the Park, and last night in the room where I am writing. It is in a tenement-house. I paid fifty cents a week for it, and there is a drunken man snoring on the other side of a board partition.
I sha'n't go back to the other place, of course, until I get more money. Besides, she has probably rented the room.
I am so relieved at having gotten something to do. I believe I am even proud of the soap.
I am getting used to walking all day; anything so long as one doesn't have the agonizing worry about starvation. I am ill, but I shall keep at it, and answer advertisements meanwhile by mail, till I get something better.