handling a brake and regulating speed
were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he
would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for the
hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with him,
but he never smiled.

"You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once," he said. "It
takes a little practice."

One o'clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he began
to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew weary
of running to and fro on the short track.

They ran the car to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went into the
barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch from
his pocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed
it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and looked
about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. It was
disagreeable--miserably disagreeable--in all its phases. Not because
it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to any one, he
thought.

After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came.

The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater
part of the time was spent in waiting about.

At last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself as to
how he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He must soon eat.
If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a half of cold
walking and riding. Besides he had orders to report at seven the next
morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at an unholy and
disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar and fifteen cents
of Carrie's money, with which he had intended to pay the two weeks' coal
bill before the present idea struck him.

"They must have some place around here," he thought. "Where does that
fellow from Newark stay?"

Finally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near one
of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy in
years--twenty-one about--but with a body lank and long, because of
privation. A little good living would have made this youth plump and
swaggering.

"How do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?" inquired
Hurstwood, discreetly.

The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer.

"You mean eat?" he replied.

"Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York to-night."

"The foreman 'll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He