They had not lived there always.  In the palmy days of work, before the firm smashed, they had aspired to what might properly be called diggings; and, moreover, had “digged” in respectable surroundings.  It was the usual thing—­the thing that is happening always, every hour of the day, in all the great cities of the world—­starvation, through lack of employment.  Civilization still shuts its eyes to everyday poverty.  Who knows?  Who cares?  Who is responsible?  No one.  Is there a remedy?  Ah! that is a question that requires time.  Time—­always time!  Time for the politician, and time for the starving ones!  Half the world thinks, whilst half the world dies; and the cause of it all is time—­too much, a damned sight too much—­time!

But Kelson and Curtis could not grumble.  They had their room—­bare, dirty and well-ventilated—­for next to nothing.  Fifty cents a week!  And they could furnish it as they pleased.  Fancy that!  What a privilege!  They were glad of it all the same—­glad of it in preference to the streets; and probably, when asleep, they thought of it as home.  But on leaving Hamar’s, that evening, they had fully resolved to convert their little room into a cemetery.  What else could they do?  What can any one do who has no money and no prospect of getting any, and who has reached the pitch of acute hunger?  He has passed the stage of wanting work, because, if work were offered to him, he would not be in a fit state to do it—­he would be too weak.  Too weak to work!  What a phenomenon!  Yes—­to all those who have never missed a day’s meals.  To others—­no!  They can understand—­and understand only too well—­the really poor who have long ceased to eat, cannot work—­they are beyond it.

When Curtis and Kelson staggered down the stairs of the house where Hamar lodged, they realized that unless something turned up pretty soon, it would be too late—­they would be past the stage of caring for anything—­too feeble to do anything but lie on the ground and pray that death would come quickly.

“Home?” Kelson inquired, as they emerged on to the pavement.

“Hell!” Curtis answered, and Kelson, taking it for granted that the terms were synonymous, at once headed for their garret.

“Don’t walk so confoundedly fast,” Curtis gasped; “this pain in my side is like a hundred stitches rolled in one.  It fairly doubles me up.  Ease down a bit, for heaven’s sake!”

Kelson obeyed, and presently came to a dead halt before a dingy-looking restaurant.  Both men leaned against the window and gazed wolfishly at the food.  A warm, foetid rush of air from under the grating at their feet tickled their nostrils and mocked their hunger with a mockery past endurance.  Arranged on the window-sill was a miscellaneous collection of very smeary plates and dishes, containing an even more miscellaneous collection of food.  A half-consumed ham, with more than a mere suspicion of dirt on its yellowish-white fat; some concoction in a bowl that