been occupying them lately. He had found Sam Dresser, whom he had known as
a student in Europe, wandering almost penniless down State Street, and had
offered him a lodging-place.

"How did it come out?" Sommers asked the big, blond young man with a
beer-stained mustache.

The big fellow stopped, before answering, to stuff a pipe with tobacco,
punching it in with a fat thumb.

"They'll give me a job--mean one--three dollars a day--nine to five--under
the roof in a big loft, tenth story--with a lot of women hirelings. Regular
sweatshop--educational sweatshop."

Sommers took up some letters from the table and opened them.

"Well, I've got to scare up some patients to live on, even to make three
dollars a day."

"You!" Dresser exclaimed, eying the letters with naive envy. "You are pals
with the fat-fed capitalists. They will see that you get something easy,
and one of these days you will marry one of their daughters. Then you will
join the bank accounts, and good-by."

He continued to rail, half jestingly, half in earnest, at McNamara and
Hills,--where he had obtained work, thanks to a letter which Sommers had
procured for him,--at his companion's relations with the well-to-do, which
he exaggerated offensively, and at the well-to-do themselves.

"It was lucky for you," Sommers remarked good-humoredly, "that I was thick