The young fellow was so glad to see Jurgis that he almost hugged him.  “By God, if it isn’t ’the Stinker’!” he cried.  “And what is it—­have you been through a sausage machine?”

“No,” said Jurgis, “but I’ve been in a railroad wreck and a fight.”  And then, while some of the other prisoners gathered round he told his wild story; most of them were incredulous, but Duane knew that Jurgis could never have made up such a yarn as that.

“Hard luck, old man,” he said, when they were alone; “but maybe it’s taught you a lesson.”

“I’ve learned some things since I saw you last,” said Jurgis mournfully.  Then he explained how he had spent the last summer, “hoboing it,” as the phrase was.  “And you?” he asked finally.  “Have you been here ever since?”

“Lord, no!” said the other.  “I only came in the day before yesterday.  It’s the second time they’ve sent me up on a trumped-up charge—­I’ve had hard luck and can’t pay them what they want.  Why don’t you quit Chicago with me, Jurgis?”

“I’ve no place to go,” said Jurgis, sadly.

“Neither have I,” replied the other, laughing lightly.  “But we’ll wait till we get out and see.”

In the Bridewell Jurgis met few who had been there the last time, but he met scores of others, old and young, of exactly the same sort.  It was like breakers upon a beach; there was new water, but the wave looked just the same.  He strolled about and talked with them, and the biggest of them told tales of their prowess, while those who were weaker, or younger and inexperienced, gathered round and listened in admiring silence.  The last time he was there, Jurgis had thought of little but his family; but now he was free to listen to these men, and to realize that he was one of them—­that their point of view was his point of view, and that the way they kept themselves alive in the world was the way he meant to do it in the future.

And so, when he was turned out of prison again, without a penny in his pocket, he went straight to Jack Duane.  He went full of humility and gratitude; for Duane was a gentleman, and a man with a profession—­and it was remarkable that he should be willing to throw in his lot with a humble workingman, one who had even been a beggar and a tramp.  Jurgis could not see what help he could be to him; but he did not understand that a man like himself—­who could be trusted to stand by any one who was kind to him—­was as rare among criminals as among any other class of men.

The address Jurgis had was a garret room in the Ghetto district, the home of a pretty little French girl, Duane’s mistress, who sewed all day, and eked out her living by prostitution.  He had gone elsewhere, she told Jurgis—­he was afraid to stay there now, on account of the police.  The new address was a cellar dive, whose proprietor said that he had never heard of Duane; but after he had put Jurgis through a catechism he showed him a back stairs which led to a “fence” in the rear of a pawnbroker’s shop, and thence to a number of assignation rooms, in one of which Duane was hiding.