wilderness.
A policeman gave him his direction and told him that he had five miles to go. He came again to the slum districts, to avenues of saloons and cheap stores, with long dingy red factory buildings, and coalyards and railroad tracks; and then Jurgis lifted up his head and began to sniff the air like a startled animal—scenting the far-off odor of home. It was late afternoon then, and he was hungry, but the dinner invitations hung out of the saloons were not for him.
So he came at last to the stockyards, to the black volcanoes of smoke and the lowing cattle and the stench. Then, seeing a crowded car, his impatience got the better of him and he jumped aboard, hiding behind another man, unnoticed by the conductor. In ten minutes more he had reached his street, and home.
He was half running as he came round the corner. There was the house, at any rate—and then suddenly he stopped and stared. What was the matter with the house?
Jurgis looked twice, bewildered; then he glanced at the house next door and at the one beyond—then at the saloon on the corner. Yes, it was the right place, quite certainly—he had not made any mistake. But the house—the house was a different color!
He came a couple of steps nearer. Yes; it had been gray and now it was yellow! The trimmings around the windows had been red, and now they were green! It was all newly painted! How strange it made it seem!
Jurgis went closer yet, but keeping on the other side of the street. A sudden and horrible spasm of fear had come over him. His knees were shaking beneath him, and his mind was in a whirl. New paint on the house, and new weatherboards, where the old had begun to rot off, and the agent had got after them! New shingles over the hole in the roof, too, the hole that had for six months been the bane of his soul—he having no money to have it fixed and no time to fix it himself, and the rain leaking in, and overflowing the pots and pans he put to catch it, and flooding the attic and loosening the plaster. And now it was fixed! And the broken windowpane replaced! And curtains in the windows! New, white curtains, stiff and shiny!
Then suddenly the front door opened. Jurgis stood, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. A boy had come out, a stranger to him; a big, fat, rosy-cheeked youngster, such as had never been seen in his home before.
Jurgis stared at the boy, fascinated. He came down the steps whistling, kicking off the snow. He stopped at the foot, and picked up some, and then leaned against the railing, making a snowball. A moment later he looked around and saw Jurgis, and their eyes met; it was a hostile glance, the boy evidently thinking that the other had suspicions of the snowball. When Jurgis started slowly across the street toward him, he gave a quick glance about, meditating retreat, but then he concluded to stand his ground.
Jurgis took hold of the railing of the steps, for he was a little unsteady. 'What—what are you doing here?' he managed to gasp.
'Go on!' said the boy.
'You—' Jurgis tried again. 'What do you want here?'
'Me?' answered the boy, angrily. 'I live here.'
'You live here!' Jurgis panted. He turned white and clung more tightly to the railing. 'You live here! Then where's my family?'
The boy looked surprised. 'Your family!' he echoed.
And Jurgis started toward him. 'I—this is my house!' he cried.
'Come off!' said the boy; then suddenly the door upstairs opened, and he called: 'Hey, ma! Here's a fellow says he owns this house.'
A stout Irishwoman came to the top of the steps. 'What's that?' she demanded.
Jurgis turned toward her. 'Where is my family?' he cried, wildly. 'I left them here! This is my home! What are you doing in my home?'
The woman stared at him in frightened wonder, she must have thought she was dealing with a maniac—Jurgis looked like one. 'Your home!' she echoed.
'My home!' he half shrieked. 'I lived here, I tell you.'
'You must be mistaken,' she answered him. 'No one ever lived here. This is a new house. They told us so. They—'
'What have they done with my family?' shouted Jurgis, frantically.
