Anthony remained at the old man's side; it was too early to start in search of work; and, at his companion's invitation, he shared the latter's breakfast of cheese and bread, with a stoup of the bitter wine. As the market became crowded, in the stress of competition, bargaining, the vendor forgot Anthony's presence; and with a deep breath of determination, he started in search of employment; he again faced the West. He had no difficulty in discovering the section of the city given over to the automobile industry, a broad, asphalt way with glittering show windows, serried ranks of cars, by either curb. There was, however, no work to be obtained here; a single offer would scarcely pay for his maintenance; in its potentialities California was the merest blur upon the future. Then for a second and more lucrative position he lacked the necessary papers. Midday found him without a prospect of employment. He had almost two dollars in change that had remained intact; and, lunching sparingly, he continued his inquiries. It was late when he found himself before a sign that proclaimed the ability within to secure positions for competent chauffeurs. And, influenced largely by the chairs which he saw ranged against the wall, he entered and registered. The fee for registration was a dollar, and that left him with scant supplies as he took a place between three other men awaiting skeptically the positions which they had been assured they might confidently expect. With a casual nod to Anthony, a small man with watery blue eyes, clad in a worn and greasy livery, continued a dissertation on methods of making money additional to that of mere salary, of agreements with tiremen, repairs necessary and otherwise, the proper manner in which to bring a car's life quickly and gracefully to a close, in order, he added slyly to the indifferent clerk, to encourage the trade. The afternoon wasted slowly but surely to a close; no one entered and the three rose with weary oaths and left in search of a convenient saloon. They waved to Anthony to follow them, but he silently declined. A profound depression settled over him, a sense of impotence, of failure. His wounded head fretted him with frequent hot pains. He was enveloped by a sense of desolating loneliness which he endeavored to dispel with the thought of Eliza; but she remained as far, as faintly sweet, as the moon of a spring night. It seemed incredible that she had once been in his arms; surely he had dreamed her voice--such voices couldn't exist in reality--telling him that she loved him. Her letter had gone with his wallet, his ticket to California. He had not written her... she would be unable to penetrate the reason for his silence, his shame for blundering into such a blind way, his lack of anything reassuring to tell her. He could not write until his feet were once more firmly planted upon the only path that led to success, to happiness, to her. XXXII