“Can't you stick till night?” his companion urged. “There's only half a day left now. If you go later there'll be nothing doing till tomorrow.” “All right,” Harry Baggs assented. The conviction seized him that this dull misery of hunger and dirt had settled upon him perpetually--there was no use in combating it; and, with an animal-like stoicism, he followed the other away from the road, out of the hollow, to where row upon row of young ornamental trees reached in mathematical perspective to broad sheds, glittering expanses of glass, a huddle of toolhouses, and office. His conductor halted at a shed entrance and indicated a weather-bronzed individual. “Him,” he said. “And mind you come back when you're through; we all dish in together and live pretty good.” Harry Baggs spent the long brilliant afternoon burning bunches of condemned peach shoots. The smoke rolled up in a thick ceaseless cloud; he bore countless loads and fed them to the flames. The hungry crawling increased, then changed to a leaden nausea; but, accepting it as inevitable, he toiled dully on until the end of day, when he was given a dollar and promise of work to-morrow. He saw, across a dingy street, a small grocery store, and purchased there coffee, bacon and a pound of dates. Then he returned across the Nursery to the hollow and huts. More men had arrived through the day, other fires were burning, and an acrid odor of scorched fat and boiling coffee rose in the delicate evening. A small group was passing about a flasklike bottle; a figure lay in a stupor on the clay; a mutter of voices, at once cautious and assertive, joined argument to complaint. “Over this way,” Peebles called as Harry Baggs approached. The former inspected the purchased articles, then cursed. “Ain't you got a bottle on you?” But when the bacon had been crisped and the coffee turned into a steaming thick liquid, he was amply appreciative of the sustenance offered. They were shortly joined by Runnel, the individual with the bluish poisoned countenance, and the elaborately ragged tramp. “Did you frighten any cooks out of their witses?” Peebles asked the last contemptuously. The other retorted unintelligibly in his appropriately hoarse voice. “Dake knocks on back doors,” Peebles explained to Harry Baggs, “and then fixes to scare a nickel or grub from the women who open.” Quiet settled over the camp; the blue smoke of pipes and cigarettes merged imperceptibly into the dusk of evening. Harry Baggs was enveloped by a momentary contentment, born of the satisfaction of food, relaxation after toil; and, leaning his head back on clasped hands, he sang: _“I changed my name when I got free To Mister, like the res'. But now ... Ol' Master's voice I hears Across de river: 'Rome, You damn ol' nigger, come and bring Dat boat an' row me home!'”_