"Who is your landlord?" asked the reporter.
"Baggold—Q. C. Baggold, the shoe-man."
"How much do you owe?"
"Twenty dollars—two months' rent."
"Were you ever in arrears before?"
"Never."
"What's the trouble? Out of work?"
"Yes, sir, I have been. But I've got a job now, and I'll have money on the tenth of the month. But that is not it."
"What is 'it,' then?" continued Fred.
"Well, I'll tell you. I don't want this in the paper, but I'll tell you Baggold hates me. He knows the woman's sick, and he takes advantage of my owing him to drive me out. Do you want to know why? Well, I'll tell you. I worked for him for five years, sir, in his shoe-factory. He brought me over from France to do the fine work. He had a lawsuit about six months ago, and he offered me $500 to lie for him on the stand. I would not do it, sir, and when they called me as a witness I told the truth, and that settled the case, and Baggold had to pay £10,000, sir, for a sly game on a contract. Then he sent me off, and I've been looking for a job, and I've got behind, and I'm just getting up again, and here he is sending me out into the snow! To-morrow is what we call at home, in France, the jour de l'an—the day of the New Year, sir, and it is a fête. And the little one, here, always looked forward to that day, sir, for a doll or a few sweetmeats; but this time—I don't think she'll have a roof for her little head! I have not a place in the world to go to, sir, but to the police station, and there's the woman on her back!"