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.
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