_debris_ upon the
edge of a city's vortex; a remnant of flesh and bones for human
appetites to feed on; a battleground of disease and vice; a beggar
animated by instinct to get from others what he could no longer earn for
himself; the type _par excellence_ who has worn out charity
organizations; the poor wreck of a soul that would create pity if there
were none of it left in the world. He was asking for food. The
proprietor gave him the address of a free lodging-house and turned him
away. He pulled his cap over his head; the door opened and closed,
letting in a fresh gale of icy air. The man was gone. I turned back to
my supper. Scientific philanthropists would have means of proving that
such men are alone to blame for their condition; that this one was in
all probability a drunkard, and that it would be useless, worse than
useless, to help him. But he was cold and hungry and penniless, and I
knew it. I went as swiftly as I could to overtake him. He had not
traveled far, lurching along at a snail's pace, and he was startled when
I came up to him. One of his legs was longer than the other; it had been
crushed in an accident. They were not pairs, his legs, and neither were
his eyes pairs; one was big and blind, with a fixed pupil, and the other
showed all his feelings. Across his nose there was a scar, a heavy scar,
pale like the rest of his face. He was small and had sandy hair. The
directors of charity bureaus could have detected perhaps a faint
resemblance to the odour of liquor as he breathed a halo of frosty air
over his scraggly red beard.

Through the weather-beaten coat pinned over it his bare chest was
visible.

"It's a cold night!" I began. "Are you out of a job?"

With his wistful eye he gave me a kind glance.

"I've been sick. There's a sharp pain right in through here." He showed
me a spot under his arm. "They thought at the hospital that I 'ad
consumption. But," his face brightened, "I haven't got it." He showed in
his smile the life-warrant that kept him from suicide. _He wanted to
live._

"Where did you sleep last night?" I asked. "It was a cold night."

"To tell you the truth," he responded in his strong Scotch accent, "I
slept in a wagon."

I proposed that we do some shopping together; he looked at me gratefully
and limped along to a cheap clothing store, kept by an Italian. The
warmth within was agreeable; there was a display of garments hung across
the ceiling under the gas-light. My companion