I
listened. They spoke French. A society of Frenchmen having their
annual dinner, the watchman in the block told me. There at last was my
chance. I went up the steps and rang the bell. A flunkey in a
dress-suit opened, but when he saw that I was not a guest, but to all
appearances a tramp, he tried to put me out. I, on my part, tried to
explain. There was an altercation and two gentlemen of the society
appeared. They listened impatiently to what I had to say, then,
without a word, thrust me into the street, and slammed the door in my
face.
It was too much. Inwardly raging, I shook the dust of the city from my
feet and took the most direct route out of it, straight up Third
Avenue. I walked till the stars in the east began to pale, and then
climbed into a wagon that stood at the curb, to sleep. I did not
notice that it was a milk-wagon. The sun had not risen yet when the
driver came, unceremoniously dragged me out by the feet, and dumped me
into the gutter. On I went with my gripsack, straight ahead, until
toward noon I reached Fordham College, famished and footsore. I had
eaten nothing since the previous day, and had vainly tried to make a
bath in the Bronx River do for breakfast.
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