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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 445 pages of information about The Jungle.

In the morning Jurgis had not a cent, and he went out upon the road again.  He was sick and disgusted, but after the new plan of his life, he crushed his feelings down.  He had made a fool of himself, but he could not help it now—­all he could do was to see that it did not happen again.  So he tramped on until exercise and fresh air banished his headache, and his strength and joy returned.  This happened to him every time, for Jurgis was still a creature of impulse, and his pleasures had not yet become business.  It would be a long time before he could be like the majority of these men of the road, who roamed until the hunger for drink and for women mastered them, and then went to work with a purpose in mind, and stopped when they had the price of a spree.

On the contrary, try as he would, Jurgis could not help being made miserable by his conscience.  It was the ghost that would not down.  It would come upon him in the most unexpected places—­sometimes it fairly drove him to drink.

One night he was caught by a thunderstorm, and he sought shelter in a little house just outside of a town.  It was a working-man’s home, and the owner was a Slav like himself, a new emigrant from White Russia; he bade Jurgis welcome in his home language, and told him to come to the kitchen-fire and dry himself.  He had no bed for him, but there was straw in the garret, and he could make out.  The man’s wife was cooking the supper, and their children were playing about on the floor.  Jurgis sat and exchanged thoughts with him about the old country, and the places where they had been and the work they had done.  Then they ate, and afterward sat and smoked and talked more about America, and how they found it.  In the middle of a sentence, however, Jurgis stopped, seeing that the woman had brought a big basin of water and was proceeding to undress her youngest baby.  The rest had crawled into the closet where they slept, but the baby was to have a bath, the workingman explained.  The nights had begun to be chilly, and his mother, ignorant as to the climate in America, had sewed him up for the winter; then it had turned warm again, and some kind of a rash had broken out on the child.  The doctor had said she must bathe him every night, and she, foolish woman, believed him.

Jurgis scarcely heard the explanation; he was watching the baby.  He was about a year old, and a sturdy little fellow, with soft fat legs, and a round ball of a stomach, and eyes as black as coals.  His pimples did not seem to bother him much, and he was wild with glee over the bath, kicking and squirming and chuckling with delight, pulling at his mother’s face and then at his own little toes.  When she put him into the basin he sat in the midst of it and grinned, splashing the water over himself and squealing like a little pig.  He spoke in Russian, of which Jurgis knew some; he spoke it with the quaintest of baby accents—­and every word of it brought back to Jurgis some word of his own dead little one,

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