“Nothin’,” he retorts. “They’re waitin’ for the mornin’ papers. They’re lookin’ to see which can git to a job first.” “Oh!” you exclaim, a great light breaking. “So they’re here to get a good start. They wait all night, eh? That’s pretty tough, isn’t it?” “Oh, I don’t know. They’re mostly Swedes and Germans.” This last as though these two nationalities, and no doubt some others, were beyond the need of human consideration. “They’re waiters and cooks and order men and dishwashers. There’s some other kinds, too, but they’re mostly waiters.” “Would you say that that old man over there--that fellow with a white beard--was a waiter?” “Aw, naw! He ain’t no waiter. I don’t know what he is--pan-handler, maybe. They wouldn’t have the likes of him. It’s these other fellows that are waiters, these young ones.” You look, and they are young in a way, lean, with thin lips and narrow chests and sallow faces, a little shabby, all of them, and each has a roll of something wrapped up in a newspaper or a brown paper and tucked under his arm--an apron, maybe. You begin speculating for yourself, and, with the aid of your friend to supply occasional points, you piece the whole thing together. This is really a very great, hard, cold city, and these men are creatures at the bottom of the ladder, temporarily, anyhow. And these columns of ads in the successful morning papers attract them as a chance. And they come here thus early in the cold in order to get a good start on a given job before any one else can get ahead of them. First come, first served. And while you are waiting, speculating, another creature edges near you. He is not quite so prosperous looking as the last one you talked to; he seems thinner, more emaciated. “Take a look at that, boss,” he says, opening his palm and shoving something bright toward you. It looks like gold. “No,” you answer nervously. (You have been held up before.) “No, I don’t want to look at it.” “Take a look at it,” he insists. “No,” you retort irritably, but you do it in a half-hearted, objecting way and see that it is a gold ring with an initial carved in the seal plate. [Illustration: The Men in the Dark] He closes his thin hand and puts it back in his pocket. He is inclined to go away, and then another idea strikes him. “Are you lookin’ fer a job?” he asks. “No.” “Ain’t you a cook?” “No.” “Gee! I thought you was some swell chef--they come here now and then.” It is a doubtful compliment but better than nothing. You soften a little. “I’m a waiter,” he confides, now that he has your momentary interest. “I am, I mean, when I’m in good health. I’m run down some now. The best I can get is dishwashing now. But I am a waiter, and I’ve been an order clerk. There’s nothin’ much to say of this bunch, though. They all work for the cheap joints. Saturday nights they gits drunk mostly, and if they’re not there on the dot Sunday they’re gone. The boss gits a new one. Then they come here Sunday night or Monday.”