y call all
foreigners and unskilled men "Jack" in Packingtown. "Where've you been?"

Jurgis went straight to the bar. "I've been in jail," he said, "and I've
just got out. I walked home all the way, and I've not a cent, and had
nothing to eat since this morning. And I've lost my home, and my wife's
ill, and I'm done up."

The saloon-keeper gazed at him, with his haggard white face and his blue
trembling lips. Then he pushed a big bottle toward him. "Fill her up!"
he said.

Jurgis could hardly hold the bottle, his hands shook so.

"Don't be afraid," said the saloon-keeper, "fill her up!"

So Jurgis drank a large glass of whisky, and then turned to the lunch
counter, in obedience to the other's suggestion. He ate all he dared,
stuffing it in as fast as he could; and then, after trying to speak his
gratitude, he went and sat down by the big red stove in the middle of
the room.

It was too good to last, however--like all things in this hard
world. His soaked clothing began to steam, and the horrible stench of
fertilizer to fill the room. In an hour or so the packing houses would
be closing and the men coming in from their work; and they would not
come into a place that smelt of Jurgis. Also it was Saturday night, and
in a couple of hours would come a violin and a cornet, and in the rear
part of the saloon the families of the neighborhood would dance and
feast upon wienerwurst and lager, until two or three o'clock in the
morning. The saloon-keeper coughed once or twice, and then remarked,
"Say, Jack, I'm afraid you'll have to quit."

He was used to the sight of human wrecks, this saloon-keeper; he "fired"
dozens of them every night, just as haggard and cold and forlorn as this
one. But they were all men who had given up and been counted out, while
Jurgis was still in the fight, and had reminders of decency about him.
As he got up meekly, the other reflected that he had always been a
steady man, and might soon be a good customer again. "You've been up
against it, I see," he said. "Come this way."

In the rear of the saloon were the cellar stairs. There was a door above
and another below, both safely padlocked, making the stairs an admirable
place to stow away a customer who might still chance to have money, or a
political light whom it was not advisable to kick out of doors.

So Jurgis spent the night. The whisky had only half warmed him, and he
could not sleep, exhausted as he was; he would nod forward, and then
s