is little hands. But suddenly, Francois Tessier put him
down, and cried: "Good-bye! Good-bye!" And he rushed out of the room as
if he had been a thief.

A VAGABOND

For more than a month he had been walking, seeking for work everywhere.
He had left his native place, Ville-Avary, in the department of la
Manche, because there was no work to be had. He was a journeyman
carpenter, twenty-seven years old, a steady fellow and good workman, but
for two months, he, the eldest son, had been obliged to live on his
family, with nothing to do but to cross his arms in the general stoppage
of work. Bread was getting scarce with them; the two sisters went out as
charwomen, but earned little, and he, Jacques Randel, the strongest of
them all, did nothing because he had nothing to do, and ate the others'
soup.

Then he went and inquired at the town-hall, and the mayor's secretary
told him that he would find work at the Labor-center, and so he started,
well provided with papers and certificates, and carrying another pair of
shoes, a pair of trousers and a shirt, in a blue handkerchief at the end
of his stick.

And he had walked almost without stopping, day and night, along
interminable roads, in the sun and rain, without ever reaching that
mysterious country where workmen find work. At first he had the fixed
idea that he must only work because he was a carpenter, but at every
carpenter's shop where he applied he was told that they had just
dismissed men on account of work being so slack, and finding himself at
the end of his resources, he made up his mind to undertake any job that
he might come across on the road. And so by turns he was a navvy,
stableman, stone sawer; he split wood, lopped the branches of trees, dug
wells, mixed mortar, tied up faggots, tended goats on a mountain, and
all for a few pence, for he only obtained two or three days work
occasionally, by offering himself at a shamefully low price, in order to
tempt the avarice of employers and peasants.

And now, for a week he had found nothing, and he had no money left, and
was eating a piece of bread, thanks to the charity of some women from
whom he had begged at house doors, on the road. It was getting dark, and
Jacques Randel, jaded, his legs failing him, his stomach empty, and with
despair in his heart, was walking barefoot on the grass by the side of
the road, for he was taking care of his last pair of shoes, as the other
pair had already ceased to exist f