The search for work was a distressing business, when to the inevitable question “What can you do?” the only possible, but quite futile, reply was, “I’ll do anything.” I had collected the ten dollars from _Harper’s Young People_, but a letter to Storey for more work brought no reply. The payment for the Toronto packing-case and for a week’s rent of the rooms had reduced the exchequer so seriously that in a few days there was only the _Harper’s_ money in hand. Boyde, who stayed on at our urgent invitation, shared all he earned, and taught us, besides, the trick of using the free lunch-counters in hotels and saloons. For a glass of beer at five cents, a customer could eat such snacks as salted chip-potatoes, strips of spiced liver sausage, small squares of bread, and pungent almonds, all calculated to stimulate unnatural thirst. The hotels provided more sumptuous dishes, though the price of drink was higher, and the calm way Boyde would help himself deliberately to a plate and fork, with an ample supply of the best food he could find, then carry it all back to his glass of lager under the bar-tender’s very nose, was an ideal we could only hope to achieve by practice as long as his own. It was a question of nerve. Our midday meal was now invariably of this kind. The free lunch brigade, to which we belonged, was tolerantly treated by the majority of bar-tenders. A thirty cents dinner at Krisch’s in the evening, choosing the most bulky dishes, ended the long tiring day of disappointing search. Boyde also made us buy oatmeal, with tin pot and fixture for cooking over the gas-jet. He was invaluable in a dozen ways, always cheery, already on the right side of Mrs. Bernstein, and turning up every evening with a dollar or two he had earned during the day. He further taught us--the moment had come, he thought--to pawn. The packing-case in the basement was opened and rummaged through (a half-used cheque-book from Toronto days was a pathetic relic!) for things on which Ikey of 3rd Avenue might offer a few dollars. The tennis cups, won at little Canadian tournaments, seemed attractive, he thought, but our English overcoats would fetch most money. The weather was still comfortable ... we sallied forth, hoping Mrs. Bernstein would not see us, carrying two tennis cups and a couple of good overcoats. Everybody stared and grinned, it seemed, though actually of course, no one gave us a glance. Boyde, humming Lohengrin, was absolutely nonchalant. For me, the pawnbroker’s door provided sensations similar to those I knew when first entering the Hub just a year before. “I want ten dollars on these,” said Boyde, in a firm voice. “What’ll you give? I shall take ’em out next week.” The Jew behind the counter gave one glance at the tennis cups, then pushed them contemptuously aside; the overcoats he examined carefully, holding them up to the light for holes or threadbare patches, feeling the linings, turning the sleeves inside out.