“How about when your money’s gone?” he inquired, finally.  “You’ll have to, then, won’t you?”

“Wait till she’s gone,” said Jurgis; “then I’ll see.”

He had a long sleep in the barn and then a big breakfast of coffee and bread and oatmeal and stewed cherries, for which the man charged him only fifteen cents, perhaps having been influenced by his arguments.  Then Jurgis bade farewell, and went on his way.

Such was the beginning of his life as a tramp.  It was seldom he got as fair treatment as from this last farmer, and so as time went on he learned to shun the houses and to prefer sleeping in the fields.  When it rained he would find a deserted building, if he could, and if not, he would wait until after dark and then, with his stick ready, begin a stealthy approach upon a barn.  Generally he could get in before the dog got scent of him, and then he would hide in the hay and be safe until morning; if not, and the dog attacked him, he would rise up and make a retreat in battle order.  Jurgis was not the mighty man he had once been, but his arms were still good, and there were few farm dogs he needed to hit more than once.

Before long there came raspberries, and then blackberries, to help him save his money; and there were apples in the orchards and potatoes in the ground—­he learned to note the places and fill his pockets after dark.  Twice he even managed to capture a chicken, and had a feast, once in a deserted barn and the other time in a lonely spot alongside of a stream.  When all of these things failed him he used his money carefully, but without worry—­for he saw that he could earn more whenever he chose.  Half an hour’s chopping wood in his lively fashion was enough to bring him a meal, and when the farmer had seen him working he would sometimes try to bribe him to stay.

But Jurgis was not staying.  He was a free man now, a buccaneer.  The old wanderlust had got into his blood, the joy of the unbound life, the joy of seeking, of hoping without limit.  There were mishaps and discomforts—­but at least there was always something new; and only think what it meant to a man who for years had been penned up in one place, seeing nothing but one dreary prospect of shanties and factories, to be suddenly set loose beneath the open sky, to behold new landscapes, new places, and new people every hour!  To a man whose whole life had consisted of doing one certain thing all day, until he was so exhausted that he could only lie down and sleep until the next day—­and to be now his own master, working as he pleased and when he pleased, and facing a new adventure every hour!