Hurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speed were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for the hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with him, but he never smiled. "You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once," he said. "It takes a little practice." One o'clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he began to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew weary of running to and fro on the short track. They ran the car to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went into the barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch from his pocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and looked about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. It was disagreeable--miserably disagreeable--in all its phases. Not because it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to any one, he thought. After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came. The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater part of the time was spent in waiting about. At last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself as to how he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He must soon eat. If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a half of cold walking and riding. Besides, he had orders to report at seven the next morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at an unholy and disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar and fifteen cents of Carrie's money, with which he had intended to pay the two weeks' coal bill before the present idea struck him. "They must have some place around here," he thought. "Where does that fellow from Newark stay?" Finally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near one of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy in years--twenty-one about--but with a body lank and long, because of privation. A little good living would have made this youth plump and swaggering. "How do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?" inquired Hurstwood, discreetly. The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer. "You mean eat?" he replied. "Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York to-night." "The foreman 'll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me." "That so?" "Yes. I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't go home. I live way over in Hoboken." Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment. "They've got a place upstairs here, I understand. I don't know what sort of a thing it is. Purty tough, I guess. He gave me a meal ticket this noon. I know that wasn't much." Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed. "It ain't no fun, is it?" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery reply. "Not much," answered Hurstwood.