had doubted what he said, he had proved it all with solid facts from a book a ship agent had given him-a thick red book with stars and stripes.

So Fritzy was to blame for their coming to New York.

"He got us into this," they chuckled. "Now we'll see how he likes it himselfthis fine free eagle's country! what happens to his dreams!"

We'll see

Their evening talks grew almost gay. Each night as Anton read from the paper the stories of graft and high-life scandals, murders, mine explosions, strikes, the bread line, and the unemployed, the worse this "eagle's country" looked, the livelier grew their anticipations of what would happen to Fritzy's dreams.

"We won't tell him," they decided, "how rotten his America is. We won't tell him about our sweatshop jobs. We'll just look on and see the fun."

So eager they were to see the fun that they became anxious lest he had changed.

But no. When at last he arrived and sat with them in Kusaky's Café, they found with delight that he was the same old Fritzy. He rumpled his black hair just as before, his eyes behind their glasses had their familiar twinkle, his mustache its dashing upward curl, and in his voice and his laugh you could feel the same old fires of youth. For on the long journey Fritzy had seen with his eyes the thing he had dreamed-the peoples of the earth all moving toward New York.

"It was like a great river of peoples," he said; "a river fed by a thousand brooks. When we left home, we were only eleven, but at Prague we were over a hundred. Then our train started off for the sea. Hungarians got on the train, and Slovaks, and Rumanians, Bulgarians, Italians, Greeks. At the ship we were over two thousand, and most of us young men! Off we started; the band struck up! And from Naples, from Paris, from Hamburg and London, more bands struck up, more crowded ships were starting! And here in New York those ships all met! In the crowd at Ellis Island you could see all the nations, hear all the tongues, and the voices were glad! The peoples are coming to Amer

ica! They are coming while we are talking-on foot and on wagons, on trains and on ships, they are coming to-night from all over the world!"

Anton winked at August.

"How they will enjoy it!" he said. Fritzy was lighting a fresh cigarette.

"You remember the old Café of the Eagle?" he asked. "The one by the river, down under the bridge? Remember all the talks we had? Well, those talks are going on, sometimes half the night. The crowd is new. Fellows are there who were only little shavers when you left. But the talk is the same. Soon the whole crowd will be ready to come! Only the eagle will be left."

"Tell us what they say about America," said August. "I forget." He gave Jan a delighted nudge. But big Jan took no notice. As though slowly coming under some old familiar spell, he was looking intently at Fritzy.

And as he

Fritzy began to tell them. talked a strange thing happened. In the minds of these three “knockers" New York and its hard realities little by little dropped away. Their memories went back five years; their questions lost their irony, became intense and eager. And the picture of the old café grew vivid in their minds. They could almost hear the murmur of the quiet stream below. The gray stone bridge loomed above. Inside the quaint three-cornered room the huge wooden eagle, "emblem of freedom," glared down from his place on the wall, his wings outspread, fiercely impatient to fly away. And they sat again at the big center-table, a dozen restless youngsters under the spell of America, with Fritzy leading them on.

It

Kusaky brought them back to life. was nearly two o'clock, and he was closing his place for the night.

"Come on, you bums," he snapped. "Clear out!"

Anton, Jan, and August rose and looked about in a dazed sort of way at the brand-new, glittering room with its blue painted walls and its mirrors. In one of these mirrors Anton caught a glimpse of his face that made him start and scowl. He threw a quick glance at the others to see if they had noticed. But they had And what he saw in the faces of

not.

Jan and August made him break into a bitter laugh.

"And here we are at last!" he cried. "In America !"

Jan and August turned sharply around. They, too, had come to their senses. The three "knockers " were themselves again. The "fun" was about to begin.

In the street outside Anton pointed up to a shadowy bridge that loomed high above the tenement roofs, between them and the stars; no quaint old bridge of stone, but a colossal bridge of steel.

"In three hours more," he said impressively, "before daylight, the crowds will pour over up there, pour down by thousands into New York-and go on making their fortunes."

"Like us," said August, smiling. "But you will not see our money. We keep it

in the bank."

"You are right," continued Anton, as they walked back to their tenement, where Fritzy had taken a room over theirs. "It's a country of wonderful chances. How are you going to make your start?"

"Get work," said Fritzy, promptly.
"Where ?"

"On a Bohemian paper here, until I can learn to write English. Already I can read it a little. I will soon learn more. And I'll look around, see the city while I'm fresh, and write down what I see. I want to see life."

"Good," said Anton, grimly. life. It's fine."

"See

For the next few weeks Fritzy was busy seeing life. From early morning he roamed the streets, not knowing where he went. The Ghetto, Little Italy, the Tenderloin, Fifth Avenue, Broadway, Central Park, all passed in endless panorama before his hungry eyes. In the papers he read astounding accounts of heroic deeds at fires, mysterious murders, dazzling weddings. With these stories as guides and spurs to his active imagination, he watched the people that passed him in crowds. And in Kusaky's at night he sat at the table trying to write down what he had seen.

"Chances for whom ?" he demanded. "For me!" cried Fritzy. "A writer! Never in the world has a writer had a chance like this! Here are four million people, all nations, all kinds, good and bad, young and old. Each day in this city hundreds are born and hundreds die. And between-who knows what happens? You see thousands go by in the street. What makes some of them laugh so hard? And in their rooms, shut in alone, what makes some of them clinch their hands? The funniest and the most terrible stories are here all around you, crowded close, never meeting. And most of us never see or hear. If a man could only see and hear and write it down, his books would soon be famous !

"And let me tell you this," he went on. "In New York a man gets famous fast. In an hour his name and his picture can be put into many big papers at once and be seen by millions of people."

"You are right," said Anton, gruffly. "In New York a man gets famous fast. All that he needs is to get his start.”

Anton scowled. He forgot that he was enjoying the "fun." For he had gone in secret many times to the three Bohemian weekly papers; he knew that Fritzy had tried them all, again and again, and that all had refused to give him work.

"The fool can't get his start," he told Jan and August that night in their room. "He can't even get a job in this fine eagle's country. And already he is getting scared. This big talk of his is bluff. Watch him close and you will see."

But Fritzy's talk went on. He had brought from Bohemia that red book with stars and stripes. With the book under his arm he found his way one morning down to the Wall Street region, went past imposing buildings with thousands of office windows reaching tier on tier to the sky, entered the Stock Exchange at last, mounted to the gallery, and there with the old book on his knees he looked down and held his breath. For he had read in the book that the mountains ribbed with silver, the prairies dark with cattle, the wheat-fields far as the eye could see, the

Fat August jumped half out of his chair.

somehow had their center here.

He took the book to Kusaky's that

night. The book was worn and thumbmarked now, for it had done duty in hundreds of evenings back in the old Café of the Eagle. But to Fritzy the things that it said had suddenly taken on new life. And, swiftly turning the pages, he talked of what he had seen come truethe boundless wealth of America.

"The book was right," he declared with an almost desperate eagerness. "It is here! I tell you the wealth is here!" Big Jan had been listening hard, with at curious, anxious look on his face. He too had forgotten that he was a "knocker." Now he drew a deep, slow breath.

"How much have you?" he asked. As though awakened with a shock, Fritzy looked up from the battered book and met three pairs of eyes. In that instant they saw in behind his "big talk," saw Fritzy facing America, saw Fritzy "getting scared." Then again the veil dropped.

How much have I? We'll see." With an easy twinkle in his eyes, he was counting his money. "Eleven dollars and seventeen cents," he announced at last.

"If you are careful," said August, gravely, "that wealth will last you quite a time." Fritzy smiled. From his pocket he drew an envelope and tossed it on the table.

back to the old Café of the Eagle, and that he actually dreaded to see America shatter Fritzy's dreams. And this dread each "knocker" had hidden as a thing to be ashamed of. But now they had a good excuse for showing their anxiety.

"That ticket home," growled Anton. "If the fool doesn't soon get a job, he will give up and go back to Bohemia. And our fun will all be spoiled.”

The "fun" grew swiftly more intense. Each night they watched him closely. He was working harder now, and his face was growing lean. Every few days he submitted some new article to the Bohemian editors-who promptly rejected each in turn. But still he kept on writing.

"Never in any city on earth," he said one night, "have there been such chances for learning things. Here in one town are a thousand schools. Every night there are hundreds of lectures free, and hundreds of library rooms all free, all packed with books by the million! All these places are crowded full. And in the great Broadway cafés the American people gather at night to discuss the wonderful things they have learned. The title of my article is 'America's Feast of Knowledge.'"

The "Feast of Knowledge did not

That night in their room the three chums talked over this new turn in Fritzy's case. Until now their talk had been awkward, restrained, for each had found, to his surprise, that he was not enjoying the "fun," that his thoughts kept going

"Speaking of feasts," said August, have you noticed how small his supper is? Last week he began to skip the soup, two nights later the pudding, now the beer. Already he looks starved. His money must be going fast. In another week he will not even be able to pay his rent. They will put him out."

There was a dead pause. The picture of the old café rose vividly in their minds.

"Look here." Big Jan's voice was rough. "My bed is big enough for two. Why not take him in with us?"

Jan's two chums looked quickly up as though they had had the same idea. Why not?" cried August. “Why not lengthen out the fun ?"

66

So Fritzy moved into their room. And once more the "fun" went on.

The three Bohemian papers all had their offices in the same block. Late one night, as August was coming out of one,