When Jack turned away from the entrance to Central Park, he found much of the Sunday quiet gone. It was nearly half-past ten o'clock; the sidewalks were covered with people, and the street resounded with the rattle of carriage-wheels.

There was some uneasiness in the mind of the boy from Crofield. The policeman had impressed upon Jack the idea that he was not at home in the city, and that he did not seem at home there. He did not know one church from another, and part of his uneasiness was about how city people managed their churches. Perhaps they sold tickets, he thought; or perhaps you paid at the door; or possibly it didn't cost anything, as in Crofield.
"How would he get in?"
"How would he get in?"

"I'll ask," he decided, as he paused in front of what seemed to him a very imposing church. He stood still, for a moment, as the steady procession passed him, part of it going by, but much of it turning into the church.

"Mister—," he said bashfully to four well-dressed men in quick succession; but not one of them paused to answer him. Two did not so much as look at him, and the glances given him by the other two made his cheeks burn—he hardly knew why.

"There's a man I'll try," thought Jack. "I'm getting mad!" The man of whom Jack spoke came up the street. He seemed an unlikely subject. He was so straight he almost leaned backward; he was rather slender than thin; and was uncommonly well dressed. In fact, Jack said to himself: "He looks as if he had bought the meeting-house, and was not pleased with his bargain."

Proud, even haughty, as was the manner of the stranger, Jack stepped boldly forward and again said:

"Mister?"

"Well, my boy, what is it?"

The response came with a halt and almost a bow.

"If a fellow wished to go to this church, how would he get in?" asked Jack.

"Do you live in the city?" There was a frown of stern inquiry on the broad forehead; but the head was bending farther forward.

"No," said Jack, "I live in Crofield."

"Where's that?"

"Away up on the Cocahutchie River. I came here early this morning."

"What's your name?"

"John Ogden."

"Come with me, John Ogden. You may have a seat in my pew. Come."

Into the church and up the middle aisle Jack followed his leader, with a sense of awe almost stifling him; then, too, he felt drowned in the thunderous flood of music from the organ. He saw the man stop, open a pew-door, step back, smile and bow, and then wait until the boy from Crofield had passed in and taken his seat.

"He's a gentleman," thought Jack, hardly aware that he himself had bowed low as he went in, and that a smile of grim approval had followed him.

In the pew behind them sat another man, as haughty looking, but just now wearing the same kind of smile as he leaned forward and asked in an audible whisper:

"General, who's your friend?"

"Mr. John Ogden, of Crofield, away up on the Cookyhutchie River. I netted him at the door," was the reply, in the same tone.

"Good catch?" asked the other.

"Just as good as I was, Judge, forty years ago. I'll tell you how that was some day."

"Decidedly raw material, I should say."

"Well, so was I. I was no more knowing than he is. I remember what it is to be far away from home."

The hoarse, subdued whispers ceased; the two gentle men looked grim and severe again. Then there was a grand burst of music from the organ, the vast congregation stood up, and Jack rose with them.

He felt solemn enough, there was no doubt of that; but what he said to himself unconsciously took this shape:

"Jingo! If this isn't the greatest going to church I ever did! Hear that voice! The organ too—what music! Don't I wish Molly was here! I wish all the family were here."

The service went on and Jack listened attentively, in spite of a strong tendency in his eyes to wander among the pillars to the galleries, up into the lofty vault above him, or around among the pews full of people. He knew it was a good sermon and that the music was good, singing and all—especially when the congregation joined in "Old Hundred" and another old hymn that he knew. Still he had an increasing sense of being a very small fellow in a very large place. When he raised his head, after the benediction, he saw the owner of the pew turn toward him, bow low, and hold out his hand. Jack shook hands, of course.

"Good-morning, Mr. Ogden," said the gentleman gravely, with almost a frown on his face, but very politely, and then he turned and walked out of the pew. Jack also bowed as he shook hands, and said, "Good-morning. Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoyed the sermon."

"General," said the gentleman in the pew behind them, "pretty good for raw material. Keep an eye on him."

"No, I won't," said the general. "I've spoiled four or five in that very way."

"Well, I believe you're right," said the judge, after a moment. "It's best for that kind of boy to fight his own battles. I had to."

"So did I," said the general, "and I was well pounded for a while."

Jack did not hear all of the conversation, but he had a clear idea that they were talking about him; and as he walked slowly out of the church, packed in among the crowd in the aisle, he had a very rosy face indeed.

Jack had in mind a thought that had often come to him in the church at Crofield, near the end of the sermon:—he was conscious that it was dinner-time.

Of course he thought, with a little homesickness, of the home dinner-table.

"I wish I could sit right down with them," he thought, "and tell them what Sunday is in the city. Then my dinner wouldn't cost me a cent there, either. No matter, I'm here, and now I can begin to make more money right away. I have five dollars and fifty cents left anyway."

Then he thought of the bill of fare at the Hotel Dantzic, and many of the prices on it, and remembered Mr. Guilderaufenberg's instructions about going to some cheaper place for his meals.

"I didn't tell him that I had only nine dollars," he said to himself, "but I'll follow his advice. He's a traveler."

Jack had been too proud to explain how little money he had, but his German friend had really done well by him in making him take the little room at the top of the Hotel Dantzic. He had said to his wife:

"Dot poy! Vell, I see him again some day. He got a place to shleep, anyhow, vile he looks around und see de ceety. No oder poy I efer meets know at de same time so moch and so leetle."

With every step from the church door Jack felt hungrier, but he did not turn his steps toward the Hotel Dantzic. He walked on down to the lower part of the city, on the lookout for hotels and restaurants. It was not long before he came to a hotel, and then he passed another and another; and he passed a number of places where the signs told him of dinners to be had within, but all looked too fine.

"They're for rich people," he said, shaking his head, "like the people in that church. What stacks of money they must have? That organ maybe cost more than all the meeting-houses in Crofield!"

After going a little farther Jack exclaimed;

"I don't care! I've just got to eat!"

He was getting farther and farther from the Hotel Dantzic, and suddenly his eyes were caught by a very taking sign, at the top of some neat steps leading down into a basement:

"DINNER. ROAST BEEF. TWENTY-FIVE CENTS."

"That'll do." said Jack eagerly. "I can stand that. Roost beef alone is forty cents at the Dantzic."

Down he went and found himself in a wide comfortable room, containing two long dining tables, and a number of small oblong tables, and some round tables, all as neat as wax. It was a very pleasant place, and a great many other hungry people were there already.

Jack sat down at one of the small tables, and a waiter came to him at once.

"Dinner sir? Yessir. Roast beef, sir? Yessir. Vegetables? Potatoes? Lima-beans? Sweet corn?"

"Yes, please," said Jack. "Beef, potatoes, beans, and ............