“But where shall I go?” Jurgis asked, helplessly.

“I don’t know where,” she answered.  “Go on the street, if there is no other place—­only go!  And stay all night!”

In the end she and Marija pushed him out of the door and shut it behind him.  It was just about sundown, and it was turning cold—­the rain had changed to snow, and the slush was freezing.  Jurgis shivered in his thin clothing, and put his hands into his pockets and started away.  He had not eaten since morning, and he felt weak and ill; with a sudden throb of hope he recollected he was only a few blocks from the saloon where he had been wont to eat his dinner.  They might have mercy on him there, or he might meet a friend.  He set out for the place as fast as he could walk.

“Hello, Jack,” said the saloonkeeper, when he entered—­they call all foreigners and unskilled men “Jack” in Packingtown.  “Where’ve you been?”

Jurgis went straight to the bar.  “I’ve been in jail,” he said, “and I’ve just got out.  I walked home all the way, and I’ve not a cent, and had nothing to eat since this morning.  And I’ve lost my home, and my wife’s ill, and I’m done up.”

The saloonkeeper gazed at him, with his haggard white face and his blue trembling lips.  Then he pushed a big bottle toward him.  “Fill her up!” he said.

Jurgis could hardly hold the bottle, his hands shook so.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the saloonkeeper, “fill her up!”

So Jurgis drank a large glass of whisky, and then turned to the lunch counter, in obedience to the other’s suggestion.  He ate all he dared, stuffing it in as fast as he could; and then, after trying to speak his gratitude, he went and sat down by the big red stove in the middle of the room.

It was too good to last, however—­like all things in this hard world.  His soaked clothing began to steam, and the horrible stench of fertilizer to fill the room.  In an hour or so the packing houses would be closing and the men coming in from their work; and they would not come into a place that smelt of Jurgis.  Also it was Saturday night, and in a couple of hours would come a violin and a cornet, and in the rear part of the saloon the families of the neighborhood would dance and feast upon wienerwurst and lager, until two or three o’clock in the morning.  The saloon-keeper coughed once or twice, and then remarked, “Say, Jack, I’m afraid you’ll have to quit.”

He was used to the sight of human wrecks, this saloonkeeper; he “fired” dozens of them every night, just as haggard and cold and forlorn as this one.  But they were all men who had given up and been counted out, while Jurgis was still in the fight, and had reminders of decency about him.  As he got up meekly, the other reflected that he had always been a steady man, and might soon be a good customer again.  “You’ve been up against it, I see,” he said.  “Come this way.”

In the rear of the saloon were the cellar stairs.  There was a door above and another below, both safely padlocked, making the stairs an admirable place to stow away a customer who might still chance to have money, or a political light whom it was not advisable to kick out of doors.