"Him sweetheart in Neapoli." Some one ventured the information, and confusedly he acknowledged his guilt, while everybody laughed. He was going home to marry Pepitta and when times grew better they would come back to Pittsburg. "Don't you get homesick for Neapoli in Pittsburg?" "Nop," he replied. "Me citizen, American citizen," he repeated with proud emphasis. "What is your name?" I asked as I shook hands with my fellow citizen who had foresworn his allegiance to the King of Italy and plighted it to Uncle Sam. Proudly he pulled out his papers. I looked at them and they almost dropped from my fingers; for they were made out to "John Sullivan." When he saw my astonishment he said: "I change name. Want to be an American. My name used to be Giovanni Salvini." At the edge of the ever-increasing circle I saw my friends, the Slavs, and I reached out my hand to them. It was grasped a dozen times or more, by Poles, Slovenes and "Griners," as they are called, because they come from the Austrian province of Krain. They were less cheerful than the Italians. They were returning home because of the hard times, many of them with empty pockets, some of them with modest savings. There were Croatians, a few Dalmatians and many Bulgarians and Serbs, who for some reason are the least successful among our Slavic toilers. They were all in rags, looked pinched and half starved and told their hard luck story with many embellishments. A great many stalwart young fellows were going back to join the army; for the emperor had declared amnesty to all who had left their country before serving their term in arms. One could well afford to be patriotic when the king forgave and when times were hard in America. Some of the Southern Slavs had marched up in the scale of social life; had become machinists, petty foremen and taskmasters over their own kinsmen. They knew English fairly well and seemed to have acquired some better things than mere bank accounts. An old gentleman from Lorain, Ohio, was going home to die, and to die in poverty, because the hard times struck at the roots of his business and he was too old to labour in the mills. Another went back to claim a fortune, and asked me for the loan of a dollar, which he would be sure to send back as soon as his fingers touched the waiting wealth. The circle received constant additions, for our laughter and banter reached down to the dreary bunks, and many of their occupants came up to listen. Women brought their half-asleep children and I drew on my stock of sweets. Even the more reticent women talked to "the man," and told him things glad and sad. A Polish woman was the spokesman of her group. "We are going back to the Stary Kray (the Old Country). America ne dobre" (not good). "Why is it not good?" "The air ne dobre, the food ne dobre, the houses ne dobre." Nothing was good.