This depot was within the danger line for Jurgis—­in the “Levee” district, where he was known; but he went there, all the same, for he was desperate, and beginning to think of even the Bridewell as a place of refuge.  So far the weather had been fair, and he had slept out every night in a vacant lot; but now there fell suddenly a shadow of the advancing winter, a chill wind from the north and a driving storm of rain.  That day Jurgis bought two drinks for the sake of the shelter, and at night he spent his last two pennies in a “stale-beer dive.”  This was a place kept by a Negro, who went out and drew off the old dregs of beer that lay in barrels set outside of the saloons; and after he had doctored it with chemicals to make it “fizz,” he sold it for two cents a can, the purchase of a can including the privilege of sleeping the night through upon the floor, with a mass of degraded outcasts, men and women.

All these horrors afflicted Jurgis all the more cruelly, because he was always contrasting them with the opportunities he had lost.  For instance, just now it was election time again—­within five or six weeks the voters of the country would select a President; and he heard the wretches with whom he associated discussing it, and saw the streets of the city decorated with placards and banners—­and what words could describe the pangs of grief and despair that shot through him?

For instance, there was a night during this cold spell.  He had begged all day, for his very life, and found not a soul to heed him, until toward evening he saw an old lady getting off a streetcar and helped her down with her umbrellas and bundles and then told her his “hard-luck story,” and after answering all her suspicious questions satisfactorily, was taken to a restaurant and saw a quarter paid down for a meal.  And so he had soup and bread, and boiled beef and potatoes and beans, and pie and coffee, and came out with his skin stuffed tight as a football.  And then, through the rain and the darkness, far down the street he saw red lights flaring and heard the thumping of a bass drum; and his heart gave a leap, and he made for the place on the run—­knowing without the asking that it meant a political meeting.

The campaign had so far been characterized by what the newspapers termed “apathy.”  For some reason the people refused to get excited over the struggle, and it was almost impossible to get them to come to meetings, or to make any noise when they did come.  Those which had been held in Chicago so far had proven most dismal failures, and tonight, the speaker being no less a personage than a candidate for the vice-presidency of the nation, the political managers had been trembling with anxiety.  But a merciful providence had sent this storm of cold rain—­and now all it was necessary to do was to set off a few fireworks, and thump awhile on a drum, and all the homeless wretches from a mile around would pour in and fill the hall!  And then on the morrow the newspapers would have a chance to report the tremendous ovation, and to add that it had been no “silk-stocking” audience, either, proving clearly that the high tariff sentiments of the distinguished candidate were pleasing to the wage-earners of the nation.