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The end of it was that, after
pawning my revolver and my top-boots, the only valuable possessions
I had left, to pay for my lodging, I was thrown on the street,
and told to come back when I had more money. That night I wandered
about New York with a gripsack that had only a linen duster and
a pair of socks in it, turning over in my mind what to do next.
Toward midnight I passed a house in Clinton Place that was lighted
up festively. Laughter and the hum of many voices came from within.
I listened. They spoke French. A society of Frenchmen having their
annual dinner, the watchman in the block told me. There at last
was my chance. I went up the steps and rang the bell. A flunkey in
a dress-suit opened, but when he saw that I was not a guest, but
to all appearances a tramp, he tried to put me out. I, on my part,
tried to explain. There was an altercation, and two gentlemen of
the society appeared. They listened impatiently to what I had to
say, then, without a word, thrust me into the street and slammed
the door in my face.
It was too much.


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