“Locked out!” flashed through his mind at once. His head became warm. He tried to consider what was now to be done, but he saw no prospects before him. He felt an impulse to batter down the door, enter the room, get into bed and lie there. He had already rolled his fists into a ball. But after striking the door a resounding blow, he ran down the stairs. Only when he had reached the bottom did he ask himself, “Why that blow?” It was snowing and a strong wind was whistling and moaning. The cold went right through Itsye’s bones; he began to tremble, and his teeth knocked together. He huddled up in his tattered cotton coat, from which there hung patches, strips of lining and wadding. He groaned in despair and stepped back into the entrance of the house. He felt a tug at his heart, and was once more seized with a desire to weep, to weep. “What will come of this? What?” He could behold no answer. He would to-day be frozen to death or die of hunger. “Oh, for something to eat! Food, food!” He looked about. He was standing near a cellar, the door to which was protected by a heavy lock. He placed his hand upon the lock, with no thought of robbery. As he felt the cold iron, however, it occurred to him that it would be a good idea to break off the lock and obtain access to the cellar. He pulled at the lock. No. This was beyond his strength. He repeated the attempt, and at length summoned all his force and gave a violent wrench. The lock merely made a loud noise; nothing else. He was intimidated by the knock. He looked around and quickly deserted the entrance to the house. Had he really desired to steal? And if he had succeeded in tearing the lock away, would he really have entered and committed theft? He could not believe this. He had been born into poverty, had been reared as an orphan in misery and ill-treatment, yet his hand had never been raised to another’s property. “Scandal-maker,” they used to call him, and “wickedest of the wicked”; for he never was silent when wronged, and all were his enemies because of this vindictiveness. Yet these self-same persons admitted that you could leave heaps of gold with him in perfect security. And just now he had been on the point of stealing! That morning he had also thought of stealing. What? Would he really have stolen? And perhaps yes. Ah, he was so hungry! “Food, food, food!” Again he surveyed the neighbourhood. He was in the street! He had not even noticed it when he left the yard. What was he going to do in the street? Whither would he go? “Oh, for a bite!” But there was no sense in standing here in the street. He must walk. “Walk wherever my eyes lead me, until I fall—fall, and an end of me!” Again his wrath returned. Anger against himself and the whole world. At once, however, he saw that he lacked the strength to be angry,—that his heart was growing weaker. “Food, food, food!”