Jurgis said.  Ona had grown used to it as the solution of all difficulties—­“I will work harder!” He had said that in Lithuania when one official had taken his passport from him, and another had arrested him for being without it, and the two had divided a third of his belongings.  He had said it again in New York, when the smooth-spoken agent had taken them in hand and made them pay such high prices, and almost prevented their leaving his place, in spite of their paying.  Now he said it a third time, and Ona drew a deep breath; it was so wonderful to have a husband, just like a grown woman—­and a husband who could solve all problems, and who was so big and strong!

The last sob of little Sebastijonas has been stifled, and the orchestra has once more been reminded of its duty.  The ceremony begins again—­but there are few now left to dance with, and so very soon the collection is over and promiscuous dances once more begin.  It is now after midnight, however, and things are not as they were before.  The dancers are dull and heavy—­most of them have been drinking hard, and have long ago passed the stage of exhilaration.  They dance in monotonous measure, round after round, hour after hour, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, as if they were only half conscious, in a constantly growing stupor.  The men grasp the women very tightly, but there will be half an hour together when neither will see the other’s face.  Some couples do not care to dance, and have retired to the corners, where they sit with their arms enlaced.  Others, who have been drinking still more, wander about the room, bumping into everything; some are in groups of two or three, singing, each group its own song.  As time goes on there is a variety of drunkenness, among the younger men especially.  Some stagger about in each other’s arms, whispering maudlin words—­others start quarrels upon the slightest pretext, and come to blows and have to be pulled apart.  Now the fat policeman wakens definitely, and feels of his club to see that it is ready for business.  He has to be prompt—­for these two-o’clock-in-the-morning fights, if they once get out of hand, are like a forest fire, and may mean the whole reserves at the station.  The thing to do is to crack every fighting head that you see, before there are so many fighting heads that you cannot crack any of them.  There is but scant account kept of cracked heads in back of the yards, for men who have to crack the heads of animals all day seem to get into the habit, and to practice on their friends, and even on their families, between times.  This makes it a cause for congratulation that by modern methods a very few men can do the painfully necessary work of head-cracking for the whole of the cultured world.