So Jurgis stood watching, while five or ten minutes passed. Now and then the man would look up, and address a word or two to those who were near him; and, at last, on one of these occasions, his glance rested on Jurgis. There seemed to be a slight hint of inquiry about it, and a sudden impulse seized the other. He stepped forward.
“I wanted to thank you, sir!” he began, in breathless haste. “I could not go away without telling you how much—how glad I am I heard you. I—I didn’t know anything about it all—”
The big man with the spectacles, who had moved away, came back at this moment. “The comrade is too tired to talk to any one—” he began; but the other held up his hand.
“Wait,” he said. “He has something to say to me.” And then he looked into Jurgis’s face. “You want to know more about Socialism?” he asked.
Jurgis started. “I—I—” he stammered. “Is it Socialism? I didn’t know. I want to know about what you spoke of—I want to help. I have been through all that.”
“Where do you live?” asked the other.
“I have no home,” said Jurgis, “I am out of work.”
“You are a foreigner, are you not?”
“Lithuanian, sir.”
The man thought for a moment, and then turned to his friend. “Who is there, Walters?” he asked. “There is Ostrinski—but he is a Pole—”