Midway in a paragraph he rose, threw _One Hundred Ways to See California_ on the tumbled bed, and ran away from Our Mr. Wrenn. But Our Mr. Wrenn pursued him along the wharves, where the sun glared on oily water. He had seen the wharves twelve times that fortnight. In fact, he even cried viciously that “he had seen too blame much of the blame wharves.” Early in the afternoon he went to a moving-picture show, but the first sight of the white giant figures bulking against the gray background was wearily unreal; and when the inevitable large-eyed black-braided Indian maiden met the canonical cow-puncher he threshed about in his seat, was irritated by the nervous click of the machine and the hot stuffiness of the room, and ran away just at the exciting moment when the Indian chief dashed into camp and summoned his braves to the war-path. Perhaps he could hide from thought at home. As he came into his room he stood at gaze like a kitten of good family beholding a mangy mongrel asleep in its pink basket. For on his bed was Mrs. Zapp, her rotund curves stretching behind her large flat feet, whose soles were toward him. She was noisily somnolent; her stays creaked regularly as she breathed, except when she moved slightly and groaned. Guiltily he tiptoed down-stairs and went snuffling along the dusty unvaried brick side streets, wondering where in all New York he could go. He read minutely a placard advertising an excursion to the Catskills, to start that evening. For an exhilarated moment he resolved to go, but—” oh, there was a lot of them rich society folks up there.” He bought a morning _American_ and, sitting in Union Square, gravely studied the humorous drawings. He casually noticed the “Help Wanted” advertisements. They suggested an uninteresting idea that somehow he might find it economical to go venturing as a waiter or farm-hand. And so he came to the gate of paradise: MEN WANTED. Free passage on cattle-boats to Liverpool feeding cattle. Low fee. Easy work. Fast boats. Apply International and Atlantic Employment Bureau,—Greenwich Street. “Gee!” he cried, “I guess Providence has picked out my first hike for me.” CHAPTER III HE STARTS FOR THE LAND OF ELSEWHERE The International and Atlantic Employment Bureau is a long dirty room with the plaster cracked like the outlines on a map, hung with steamship posters and the laws of New York regarding employment offices, which are regarded as humorous by the proprietor, M. Baraieff, a short slender ejaculatory person with a nervous black beard, lively blandness, and a knowledge of all the incorrect usages of nine languages. Mr. Wrenn edged into this junk-heap of nationalities with interested wonder. M. Baraieff rubbed his smooth wicked hands together and bowed a number of times. Confidentially leaning across the counter, Mr. Wrenn murmured: “Say, I read your ad. about wanting cattlemen. I want to make a trip to Europe. How—?”