huffling the soles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coat was
turned up about his red ears--his cracked derby hat was pulled down
until it turned them outward. His hands were in his pockets.

"I'll just go down Broadway," he said to himself.

When he reached Forty-second Street, the fire signs were already blazing
brightly. Crowds were hastening to dine. Through bright windows, at
every corner, might be seen gay companies in luxuriant restaurants.
There were coaches and crowded cable cars.

In his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here. The
contrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly to better things.
"What's the use?" he thought. "It's all up with me. I'll quit this."

People turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shambling figure.
Several officers followed him with their eyes, to see that he did not
beg of anybody.

Once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and looked through
the windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed a fire sign,
and through the large, plate windows of which could be seen the red and
gold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shining glassware,
and, above all, the comfortable crowd. Weak as his mind had become, his
hunger was sharp enough to show the importance of this. He stopped stock
still, his frayed trousers soaking in the slush, and peered foolishly
in.

"Eat," he mumbled. "That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any."

Then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost the fancy it
had.

"It's mighty cold," he said. "Awful cold."

At Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescent fire,
Carrie's name. "Carrie Madenda," it read, "and the Casino Company." All
the wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with this radiated fire. It was so
bright that it attracted Hurstwood's gaze. He looked up, and then at
a large, gilt-framed posterboard, on which was a fine lithograph of
Carrie, lifesize.

Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder, as
if something were scratching him. He was so run down, however, that his
mind was not exactly clear.

He approached that entrance and went in.

"Well?" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, he went
over and shoved him. "Get out of here," he said.

"I want to see Miss Madenda," he said.

"You do, eh?" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle. "Get out
of here," and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had no strength to resist.

"I wan