"Did you make it pay?" asked Ben.
"Oh, yes, it paid well enough."
"Why did you not stick to it then?"
The brows of the dilapidated cynic contracted as he responded:
"Because from a child I have been unable to stick to anything. There is no permanency in me. I am as shifting as running water. There, there; you need not ask why I do not school myself to more stable habits; as I am, I am; and be it fault or misfortune, so it is."
Ben's mental eye looked upon his new acquaintance through a fog. He could not understand him. At the same time the thought suggested itself to him: "What a purposeless, objectless life! What if my own should shape itself to such a result!" and then the more encouraging reflection came to him: "Better a tramp, with a New Orleans to be attained, than a Ben Cleveland dozing life away on Smythe's lawn."
His new acquaintance having relieved himself of an over load of cynicism proved to be a pleasant conversationalist, and a well informed man. He was apparently a harmless creature, placed on earth to fill up one of the chinks in its great social structure.
The breakfast in the morning was a repetition of the previous evening's supper, save that the soup had fewer odds and ends in it. Though Ben had refused the article the night before he found himself eating heartily of it at the breakfast table, greatly to the disappointment of the thin man, who had purposely secured a seat next to him, with hopes based on his good fortune at the supper table. Alas, they were delusive ones. Ben cleaned out his pan, and felt substantially full.
In company with the Evangelist he made his way to the city of Alleghany, on the opposite side of the river of that name, and there the two had a council of war. It was finally agreed that they should walk that day, and reach some point where a train could be boarded during the evening. Accordingly they followed the track that borders the Ohio, until within an hour of sunset, when they found themselves near the town of Economy; a settlement of industrious Germans who are trying so to live that the transition from life to death will be hardly noticeable, save that it causes the reflection that for all intents and purposes they might as well have been born dead. It is a communal settlement, and propagation is unknown. By strict frugality, industry and the natural growth of wealth much money has been amassed, and the riches undoubtedly give them all the enjoyment of possession. One of these days when the last Economist shall have departed for Eternity, with his shekel done up in a napkin, there will be a delightful hubbub over the ownership of the thousands they have accumulated.
Before reaching the settlement our travellers were met by a lone tramp, on his way to New York City, for the purpose of viewing the abutments of the East River bridge. He had heard and read so much about that structure, while summering in the vicinity of St. Paul, that his curiosity was aroused, and he thought to have a look at it.