But Frederick didn’t find work that first day. By nightfall he was feeling uneasy. Job-hunting had brought him up against an unexpected wall. The colored people he saw seemed to be avoiding him. He walked straight up to the next Negro he saw and spoke to him. From his bespattered appearance, and his pail and brush, Frederick judged the man to be a house painter. “Good evening, mister! Could you tell me where I might find a place to stay? I just got here and--” The man’s eyes in his sunken, dark face were rolling in every direction at once. “Lemme be. I donno nothin’.” He was moving on, but Frederick blocked his path. “Look, mister, I only want--” The man’s tones were belligerent, though his voice was low. “Donno nothin’ ’bout you, sailor. An’ I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’!” Frederick watched him disappear around a corner. As night came on he followed a couple of sailors into a smoke-filled eating place. There he ate well, served by a swarthy, good-natured fellow, whose father that day had picked olives on a hillside overlooking Rome. Garlic, coarse laughter, warmth and the tangy smell of seamen mingled in the dimly lighted room. Some of the men lifted their foamy mugs in greeting as Frederick sank into a corner. He waved back. But he hurried through his meal, not daring to linger long for fear of betraying himself. He walked aimlessly in the gathering gloom. He thought a lamplighter, lifting his wick to the corner lamp, eyed him suspiciously. Frederick turned down a dimmer thoroughfare. He was tired. The suitcase was heavy. Across the street a bearded seaman took his stubby pipe from between his teeth and looked after the solitary figure. _Young sailors do not carry heavy suitcases, bumping against their legs!_ The man grunted, crossed the street and came up behind the young man. He spoke softly. “Hi, sailor!” With a start Frederick turned. Now it was his turn to hesitate. In the fading light he could not distinguish whether the face behind the thick beard was white or colored. So he only answered, “Hi, yo’self!” The stranger fell in beside him. “When’d you get in?” “Yesterday. Up from the West Indies.” The answer came easily. _But_, the seaman thought to himself, _it’s the wrong answer_. Out of the corner of his eye he studied the young man and threw out another question. “What’s your ship?” Frederick was well prepared for this question. “The _Falcon_.” They walked along in silence, the bearded seaman puffing his pipe. Frederick waited. “Might you be headin’ toward the--north star?” Frederick’s heart leaped. The words could have only one meaning. Yet was this man friend or foe? Dared he trust him? “I hear tell the north star leads us straight,” he said. The stranger took Frederick’s arm. “It has led you well. Come!”