Bit by bit, piece by piece, the dislocated charms were picked up and shoved into a traveling bag, and the young woman retired to the toilet room, from which she emerged an hour later, looking as pert and as grand as ever, just as if nothing unusual had happened, every rat, or curl, in its place. Sanford, Roark and their new friend, the man who arrived late, disputed over recent baseball scores. JAN PIER--THE SHOESHINE Jan Pier, the little Frenchman, who came here several months ago from Norfolk, is going back to the Atlantic coast, where he can hear the roar of the mighty waters as they break upon the American shores, and see the ships as they come and go. One morning, about ninety days ago, as I approached the square, on East Trade, I beheld a shock-headed boy, bowing low shining a shoe. Beneath the auburn locks shone the skin of an Anglo-Saxon. “A white shoe-shine?” said I to Chris Karnazes, the fruit dealer, at the Central Hotel corner. “Yes,” answered Chris, joyfully and proudly. “Me brought him to work here.” “What is his name?” “Jan.” It was a beautiful Sunday--fair, cool and bracing, and everybody save Jan Pier and two colored associates had on their holiday clothes. Chris wore a clean shirt, white collar and red tie. It was his day off, but Jan, the newcomer, the boy of seventeen, with thick brown hair, and big brownish eyes, bent to his labors, side by side with negro lads, in tattered togs. Not a word did the Frenchman utter, nor a time lift his face, but slaved on and on, hour after hour, polishing shoes, and taking in nickels. “Have a shine,” said Chris to me. I mounted the stand. Jan Pier, without looking up, ran his rag across my shoe. “Where are you from, young fellow?” I asked. No answer; not even a grunt. “Where, boy, is your home?” Chris spoke to him in Greek. “France,” said Jan, looking up into my eyes. “Where did he come from, Chris?” “Norfolk.” That was the first time I saw Jan Pier. A Frenchman--an auburn-haired Frenchman--with bright eyes, working for a Greek and with an Afro-American shoeblack! How could it be? A week later, Jan Pier, with downcast look, soiled clothes, and tear-stained cheeks, came to me, silently begging. “What is the matter?” I asked. “Me no work; no mon; no friends.” I pitied Jan, but what could I do. The next day the Greek at the corner gave him work. I asked a negro boy why Jan left Chris, and he answered: “Jan knock down, Chris say.” I had Jan shine my shoes every time they needed it. I wrote a story about him, and advertised his business, hoping that it might prosper. But Jan flourished not. Once more he loafed the streets penniless, hungry, friendless, and far, far from home and loved ones. “Jan, where did you come from?” “Norfolk.” “Before that?” “Greece.” “Before that, even?” “France.” “When did you leave France?” “I was twelve years old.” “Did you run away?” “Yes.” “Where did you go?” “To Turkey.” “How did you get to this country?”