Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier.  He felt as if the world were not quite so bad with such a good man in it.  Others seemed to feel like himself about this.

“Captain’s a great feller, ain’t he?” said the man ahead—­a little, woebegone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune.

“Yes,” said Hurstwood, indifferently.

“Huh! there’s a lot back there yet,” said a man farther up, leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading.

“Yes.  Must be over a hundred to-night,” said another.

“Look at the guy in the cab,” observed a third.

A cab had stopped.  Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line.  There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off.  Even the crowd gaped in awe.

“That fixes up nine men for the night,” said the captain, counting out as many of the line near him.  “Line up over there.  Now, then, there are only seven.  I need twelve cents.”

Money came slowly.  In the course of time the crowd thinned out to a meager handful.  Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot passenger, was bare.  Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians.  Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding.

The captain remained stolid and determined.  He talked on, very slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he could not fail.

“Come; I can’t stay out here all night.  These men are getting tired and cold.  Some one give me four cents.”

There came a time when he said nothing at all.  Money was handed him, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other line.  Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground.

The theatres let out.  Fire signs disappeared.  A clock struck eleven.  Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men.

“Come, now,” he exclaimed to several curious observers; “eighteen cents will fix us all up for the night.  Eighteen cents.  I have six.  Somebody give me the money.  Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet to-night.  Before that I have to take these men down and put them to bed.  Eighteen cents.”

No one responded.  He walked to and fro, looking down for several minutes, occasionally saying softly:  “Eighteen cents.”  It seemed as if this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the rest had.  Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak.

At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue, accompanied by her escort.  Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own wife in like manner.