Fred slunk along in deep dejection.  He wanted the color and life and bustle of accomplishment.  A slight activity before one of the docks beguiled him from his depression.  A passenger steamer was preparing for its appointed flight south and a knot of blue-coated policemen maintained a safe path from curb to dock entrance.  Here was a touch of liveliness and gayety—­the released laughter of people bent on a holiday, hopeful farewells called out heartily, taxicabs dashing up with exaggerated haste.  He was warming himself at the flame of this genial pageant, when an opulent machine came rolling up to the curb.  A sudden surge of arrivals had pressed into service every available porter, and the alighting occupants, a man and a woman, stood waiting for some one to help them with their luggage.  Fred stared with impersonal curiosity.  Then, as instinctively, he fell back.  The man was Axel Hilmer and the woman was Helen Starratt!  His shrinking movement must have singled him out for attention, because a policeman began to hustle him on, and the next instant he was conscious that Hilmer was calling in his voice of assured authority: 

“Here, there, don’t send that man away!  I need some one to help me with these grips.  This lady has got to catch the boat!”

The officer touched his hat respectfully and Fred felt himself gently impelled toward Helen Starratt.  He did not have time to protest nor shape any plan of action.  Instead, he answered Hilmer’s imperious pantomime by grasping a suitcase in one hand and a valise in the other and staggering after them toward the waiting vessel.

They had arrived not a moment too soon; already the steamer was preparing to cast off.  In the confusion which followed, Fred had very little sense of what was happening.  He knew that a porter had relieved him of his burden and that Helen Starratt had pressed a silver coin into his hand.  There was a scramble up the gangplank, a warning whistle, a chorus of farewell, and then silence...  He had a realization that he had all but fainted—­he looked up to find Hilmer at his side.

“What’s the matter?” Hilmer was asking, brusquely.  “Are you sick?”

He roused himself with a mighty effort.

“Yes.”

“You look half starved, too...  Why don’t you go to work?  Or are you one of those damned strikers?”

“No,” he heard himself answer.  “I’m just a man who’s ... who’s up against it.”

Hilmer took out a card and scribbled on it.

“Here, look up my superintendent at the yard to-morrow.  He’ll give you a job.  There’s plenty of work for those who want it.  But don’t lose that card ... otherwise they won’t let you see him.”

Fred took the proffered pasteboard and as he did so his fingers closed over Hilmer’s mangled thumb.  He could feel himself trembling from head to foot...  He waited until Hilmer was gone.  Then he crawled slowly in the direction of the street again.  Midway he felt some force impelling him to a backward glance.  He turned about—­a green smile betrayed Storch’s sinister presence; Fred felt him swing close and whisper, triumphantly: