Before long he came to a big farmhouse, and turned up the lane that led to it.  It was just suppertime, and the farmer was washing his hands at the kitchen door.  “Please, sir,” said Jurgis, “can I have something to eat?  I can pay.”  To which the farmer responded promptly, “We don’t feed tramps here.  Get out!”

Jurgis went without a word; but as he passed round the barn he came to a freshly ploughed and harrowed field, in which the farmer had set out some young peach trees; and as he walked he jerked up a row of them by the roots, more than a hundred trees in all, before he reached the end of the field.  That was his answer, and it showed his mood; from now on he was fighting, and the man who hit him would get all that he gave, every time.

Beyond the orchard Jurgis struck through a patch of woods, and then a field of winter grain, and came at last to another road.  Before long he saw another farmhouse, and, as it was beginning to cloud over a little, he asked here for shelter as well as food.  Seeing the farmer eying him dubiously, he added, “I’ll be glad to sleep in the barn.”

“Well, I dunno,” said the other.  “Do you smoke?”

“Sometimes,” said Jurgis, “but I’ll do it out of doors.”  When the man had assented, he inquired, “How much will it cost me?  I haven’t very much money.”

“I reckon about twenty cents for supper,” replied the farmer.  “I won’t charge ye for the barn.”

So Jurgis went in, and sat down at the table with the farmer’s wife and half a dozen children.  It was a bountiful meal—­there were baked beans and mashed potatoes and asparagus chopped and stewed, and a dish of strawberries, and great, thick slices of bread, and a pitcher of milk.  Jurgis had not had such a feast since his wedding day, and he made a mighty effort to put in his twenty cents’ worth.

They were all of them too hungry to talk; but afterward they sat upon the steps and smoked, and the farmer questioned his guest.  When Jurgis had explained that he was a workingman from Chicago, and that he did not know just whither he was bound, the other said, “Why don’t you stay here and work for me?”

“I’m not looking for work just now,” Jurgis answered.

“I’ll pay ye good,” said the other, eying his big form—­“a dollar a day and board ye.  Help’s terrible scarce round here.”

“Is that winter as well as summer?” Jurgis demanded quickly.

“N—­no,” said the farmer; “I couldn’t keep ye after November—­I ain’t got a big enough place for that.”

“I see,” said the other, “that’s what I thought.  When you get through working your horses this fall, will you turn them out in the snow?” (Jurgis was beginning to think for himself nowadays.)

“It ain’t quite the same,” the farmer answered, seeing the point.  “There ought to be work a strong fellow like you can find to do, in the cities, or some place, in the winter time.”

“Yes,” said Jurgis, “that’s what they all think; and so they crowd into the cities, and when they have to beg or steal to live, then people ask ’em why they don’t go into the country, where help is scarce.”  The farmer meditated awhile.