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"plutocrats," and presently this strange fellow was saying that the labourers on the railroad were grossly underpaid. They were worth, he said, ten or fifteen dollars a day, they should receive this amount or strike for higher wages; it was shameful to allow Railroad Jones or any one else . . .

The unknown had a queer sharp accent, which reminded Abner somewhat of Mr. Ditmas. The fellow evidently was a Yankee—that is, a trickster. Abner wondered what was his trick? The youth walked on in a protracted silence, not understanding a word of what this Yankee said. The excitement of gambling still danced through his head and made the blood beat in his temples. When he reached the dirty alleys of the Negro houses, his grumbling companion left him and Abner walked on alone. Occasionally the strangeness of his recent companion's remarks came to him—the men ought to have ten or fifteen dollars a day—then he could see the dice spinning again before his eyes. . . .

The first gray of dawn glimmered in the streets as Abner turned toward his hotel; by the time he reached the gate, a delicate pearly light suffused the scraggy mulberry bearing the Scovell House sign and gave it a certain softness of outline. As he opened the front door the bells of the distant Catholic church began a solemn ringing for early Mass on Sunday morning.