"Was it all right?" she asked. She handed him the change out of his quarter. He had had a dime's worth of food. "Excellent," Fairfax assured her; "first-rate." Her sleeves came only to the elbow, her fore-arm was firm and white as milk. Her hands were coarse and red; she was pretty and her cheerfulness touched him. He wanted to ask for a wash-up, but he was timid. "I'll be back at lunchtime," he said to her, nodding, and the girl, charmed by his smile, asked hesitatingly-- "Workin' here?" And as Fairfax said "No" rather quickly, she flashed scarlet. "Excuse me," she murmured. He was as keen to get out of the restaurant now as he had been to cross its threshold. The room grew small around him, and he felt himself too closely confined with these common workmen, with whom for some reason or other he began to feel a curious fraternity. Once outside the house, instead of taking his way into the more important part of West Albany, he retraced his steps down Nut Street, now filled with men and women. Opposite the gateman's house at the foot of the hill, he saw a sign hanging in a window, "New York Central Railroad," and under this was a poster which read, "Men wanted. Apply here between nine and twelve." Fairfax read the sign over once or twice, and found that it fascinated him. This brief notice was the only call he had heard for labour, it was the only invitation given him to make his livelihood since he had come North. "Men wanted." He touched the muscles of his right arm, and repeated "Muscles of iron and a heart of steel." There was nothing said on the sign about sculptors and artists and men of talent, and poets who saw visions, and young ardent fellows of good family, who thought the world was at their feet; but it did say, "Men wanted." Well, he was a man, at any rate. He accosted a fellow who passed him whistling. "Can you tell me where a chap can get a shave in this neighbourhood? Any barbers hereabouts?" The other grinned. "Every feller is his own razor in Nut Street, partner! You can find barber shops uptown." "I want to get a wash-up," Fairfax said, smiling on him his light smile. "I want to get hold of a towel and some soap." The workman pointed across the street. "There's a hotel. They'll fix you up." Fairfax followed the man's indication, and he saw the second sign that hung in Nut Street. It gave the modest information, "Rooms and board three dollars a week. Room one dollar a week. All at Kenny's first-class hotel. Gents only." Of the proprietor who stood in the doorway, and whose morning toilet had gone as far as shirt and trousers, Antony asked-- "How much will it cost me to wash-up? I'd like soap and a towel and to lie down on a bed for a couple of hours." The Irish hotel-keeper looked at him. Fairfax took off his hat, and he didn't explain himself further. "Well," said Patrick Kenny, "yez don't look very dirthy. Charge fifteen cents. Pay in advance."