s food. Seeing the farmer eying him
dubiously, he added, "I'll be glad to sleep in the barn."

"Well, I dunno," said the other. "Do you smoke?"

"Sometimes," said Jurgis, "but I'll do it out of doors." When the man
had assented, he inquired, "How much will it cost me? I haven't very
much money."

"I reckon about twenty cents for supper," replied the farmer. "I won't
charge ye for the barn."

So Jurgis went in, and sat down at the table with the farmer's wife and
half a dozen children. It was a bountiful meal--there were baked beans
and mashed potatoes and asparagus chopped and stewed, and a dish of
strawberries, and great, thick slices of bread, and a pitcher of milk.
Jurgis had not had such a feast since his wedding day, and he made a
mighty effort to put in his twenty cents' worth.

They were all of them too hungry to talk; but afterward they sat upon
the steps and smoked, and the farmer questioned his guest. When Jurgis
had explained that he was a workingman from Chicago, and that he did not
know just whither he was bound, the other said, "Why don't you stay here
and work for me?"

"I'm not looking for work just now," Jurgis answered.

"I'll pay ye good," said the other, eying his big form--"a dollar a day
and board ye. Help's terrible scarce round here."

"Is that winter as well as summer?" Jurgis demanded quickly.

"N--no," said the farmer; "I couldn't keep ye after November--I ain't
got a big enough place for that."

"I see," said the other, "that's what I thought. When you get through
working your horses this fall, will you turn them out in the snow?"
(Jurgis was beginning to think for himself nowadays.)

"It ain't quite the same," the farmer answered, seeing the point. "There
ought to be work a strong fellow like you can find to do, in the cities,
or some place, in the winter time."

"Yes," said Jurgis, "that's what they all think; and so they crowd into
the cities, and when they have to beg or steal to live, then people
ask 'em why they don't go into the country, where help is scarce." The
farmer meditated awhile.

"How about when your money's gone?" he inquired, finally. "You'll have
to, then, won't you?"

"Wait till she's gone," said Jurgis; "then I'll see."

He had a long sleep in the barn and then a big breakfast of coffee and
bread and oatmeal and stewed cherries, for which the man charged him
only fifteen cents, perhaps having been influenced by his arguments.
Then Jurgis bade farewell,