He was too desperate to curse his
fate--he could only long for food. He could not reason. He could not
reflect. He could not understand that there were pitying hands
somewhere that might gladly have succoured him. He could think only of
the hunger which consumed him, of the food that could give him warmth
and comparative happiness.
Staggering along the streets, he came at last to a restaurant a little
way from the main thoroughfares. Stopping before the window, he stared
greedily at the steaks within, thick and juicy and lined with big, fat
oysters lying on ice; at the slices of ham as large as his hat; at the
roasted chickens, brown and ready for the table; and he ground his
teeth, groaned, and staggered on.
A few steps onward was a drinking saloon. At one side of it was a
private door with the words "Family entrance" painted thereon. And in
the recess of the door (which was closed) there stood the dark figure
of a man.
In spite of his own agony, Carringer saw something which appalled him
in the stranger's face as the street light fell upon it; and yet at the
same time he was fascinated.
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