“Is that what you’re here for?” Jurgis inquired.

“No,” was the answer.  “I’m here for disorderly conduct.  They were mad because they couldn’t get any evidence.

“What’s your name?” the young fellow continued after a pause.  “My name’s Duane—­Jack Duane.  I’ve more than a dozen, but that’s my company one.”  He seated himself on the floor with his back to the wall and his legs crossed, and went on talking easily; he soon put Jurgis on a friendly footing—­he was evidently a man of the world, used to getting on, and not too proud to hold conversation with a mere laboring man.  He drew Jurgis out, and heard all about his life all but the one unmentionable thing; and then he told stories about his own life.  He was a great one for stories, not always of the choicest.  Being sent to jail had apparently not disturbed his cheerfulness; he had “done time” twice before, it seemed, and he took it all with a frolic welcome.  What with women and wine and the excitement of his vocation, a man could afford to rest now and then.

Naturally, the aspect of prison life was changed for Jurgis by the arrival of a cell mate.  He could not turn his face to the wall and sulk, he had to speak when he was spoken to; nor could he help being interested in the conversation of Duane—­the first educated man with whom he had ever talked.  How could he help listening with wonder while the other told of midnight ventures and perilous escapes, of feastings and orgies, of fortunes squandered in a night?  The young fellow had an amused contempt for Jurgis, as a sort of working mule; he, too, had felt the world’s injustice, but instead of bearing it patiently, he had struck back, and struck hard.  He was striking all the time—­there was war between him and society.  He was a genial freebooter, living off the enemy, without fear or shame.  He was not always victorious, but then defeat did not mean annihilation, and need not break his spirit.

Withal he was a goodhearted fellow—­too much so, it appeared.  His story came out, not in the first day, nor the second, but in the long hours that dragged by, in which they had nothing to do but talk and nothing to talk of but themselves.  Jack Duane was from the East; he was a college-bred man—­had been studying electrical engineering.  Then his father had met with misfortune in business and killed himself; and there had been his mother and a younger brother and sister.  Also, there was an invention of Duane’s; Jurgis could not understand it clearly, but it had to do with telegraphing, and it was a very important thing—­there were fortunes in it, millions upon millions of dollars.  And Duane had been robbed of it by a great company, and got tangled up in lawsuits and lost all his money.  Then somebody had given him a tip on a horse race, and he had tried to retrieve his fortune with another person’s money, and had to run away, and all the rest had come from that.  The other asked him what had led him to safebreaking—­to