o large for him. He walked a great deal.
Perhaps that had something to do with it. He tramped miles of city
pavements. He was a very lonely man. And then, one day, quite by
accident, he came upon South Water Street. Came upon it, stared at it
as a water-crazed traveler in a desert gazes upon the spring in the
oasis, and drank from it, thirstily, gratefully.

South Water Street feeds Chicago. Into that close-packed thoroughfare
come daily the fruits and vegetables that will supply a million tables.
Ben had heard of it, vaguely, but had never attempted to find it. Now
he stumbled upon it and, standing there, felt at home in Chicago for
the first time in more than a year. He saw ruddy men walking about in
overalls and carrying whips in their hands--wagon whips, actually. He
hadn't seen men like that since he had left the farm. The sight of
them sent a great pang of homesickness through him. His hand reached
out and he ran an accustomed finger over the potatoes in a barrel on
the walk. His fingers lingered and gripped them, and passed over them
lovingly.

At the contact something within him that had been tight and hungry
seemed to relax, satisfied. It was his nerves, feeding on those
familiar things for which they had been starving.

He walked up one side and down the other. Crates of lettuce, bins of
onions, barrels of apples. Such vegetables! The radishes were scarlet
globes. Each carrot was a spear of pure orange. The green and purple
of fancy asparagus held his expert eye. The cauliflower was like a
great bouquet, fit for a bride; the cabbages glowed like jade.

And the men! He hadn't dreamed there were men like that in this big,
shiny-shod, stiffly laundered, white-collared city. Here were rufous
men in overalls--worn, shabby, easy-looking overalls and old blue
shirts, and mashed hats worn at a careless angle. Men, jovial,
good-natured, with clear eyes, and having about them some of the
revivifying freshness and wholesomeness of the products they handled.

Ben Westerveld breathed in the strong, pungent smell of onions and
garlic and of the earth that seemed to cling to the vegetables, washed
clean though they were. He breathed deeply, gratefully, and felt
strangely at peace.

It was a busy street. A hundred times he had to step quickly to avoid
a hand truck, or dray, or laden wagon. And yet the busy men found time
to greet him friendlily. "H'are you!" they said genially. "H'are you
this