Finally we spoke, and were inseparable after that.  For our woes were identical, almost.  He had been a reporter too, and lost his berth, and this was his experience, as nearly as I can recollect it.  After losing his berth he had gone down, down, down, with never a halt:  from a boarding house on Russian Hill to a boarding house in Kearney street; from thence to Dupont; from thence to a low sailor den; and from thence to lodgings in goods boxes and empty hogsheads near the wharves.  Then; for a while, he had gained a meagre living by sewing up bursted sacks of grain on the piers; when that failed he had found food here and there as chance threw it in his way.  He had ceased to show his face in daylight, now, for a reporter knows everybody, rich and poor, high and low, and cannot well avoid familiar faces in the broad light of day.

This mendicant Blucher—­I call him that for convenience—­was a splendid creature.  He was full of hope, pluck and philosophy; he was well read and a man of cultivated taste; he had a bright wit and was a master of satire; his kindliness and his generous spirit made him royal in my eyes and changed his curb-stone seat to a throne and his damaged hat to a crown.

He had an adventure, once, which sticks fast in my memory as the most pleasantly grotesque that ever touched my sympathies.  He had been without a penny for two months.  He had shirked about obscure streets, among friendly dim lights, till the thing had become second nature to him.  But at last he was driven abroad in daylight.  The cause was sufficient; he had not tasted food for forty-eight hours, and he could not endure the misery of his hunger in idle hiding.  He came along a back street, glowering at the loaves in bake-shop windows, and feeling that he could trade his life away for a morsel to eat.  The sight of the bread doubled his hunger; but it was good to look at it, any how, and imagine what one might do if one only had it.

Presently, in the middle of the street he saw a shining spot—­looked again—­did not, and could not, believe his eyes—­turned away, to try them, then looked again.  It was a verity—­no vain, hunger-inspired delusion—­it was a silver dime!

He snatched it—­gloated over it; doubted it—­bit it—­found it genuine —­choked his heart down, and smothered a halleluiah.  Then he looked around—­saw that nobody was looking at him—­threw the dime down where it was before—­walked away a few steps, and approached again, pretending he did not know it was there, so that he could re-enjoy the luxury of finding it.  He walked around it, viewing it from different points; then sauntered about with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the signs and now and then glancing at it and feeling the old thrill again.  Finally he took it up, and went away, fondling it in his pocket.  He idled through unfrequented streets, stopping in doorways and corners to take it out and look at it.  By and by he went home to his lodgings—­an