"When did you come in?"
"Yesterday."
The other had another look round, and then wrinkled up his nose. "There's the devil of a stink in here," he said, suddenly. "What is it?"
"It's me," said Jurgis.
"You?"
"Yes, me."
"Didn't they make you wash?"
"Yes, but this don't wash."
"What is it?"
"Fertilizer."
"Fertilizer! The deuce! What are you?"
"I work in the stockyards—at least I did until the other day. It's in my clothes."
"That's a new one on me," said the new-comer. "I thought I'd been up against 'em all. "What are you in for?"
"I hit my boss."
"Oh—that's it. What did he do?"
"He—he treated me mean."
"I see. You're what's called an honest working-man!"
"What are you?" Jurgis asked.
"I?" The other laughed. "They say I'm a cracksman," he said.
"What's that?" asked Jurgis.
"Safes, and such things," answered the other.
"Oh," said Jurgis, wonderingly, and stared at the speaker in awe. "You mean you break into them—you—you—"
"Yes," laughed the other, "that's what they say."
He did not look to be over twenty-two or three, though, as Jurgis found afterward, he was thirty. He spoke like a man of education, like what the world calls a "gentleman."
"Is that what you're here for?" Jurgis inquired.
"No," was the answer. "I'm here for disorderly conduct. They were mad because they couldn't get any evidence."
"What's your name?" the young fellow continued after
