drink can lend them--and still there is no one among them who has the
power to think of stopping. Promptly at seven o'clock this same Monday
morning they will every one of them have to be in their places at
Durham's or Brown's or Jones's, each in his working clothes. If one of
them be a minute late, he will be docked an hour's pay, and if he be
many minutes late, he will be apt to find his brass check turned to the
wall, which will send him out to join the hungry mob that waits every
morning at the gates of the packing houses, from six o'clock until
nearly half-past eight. There is no exception to this rule, not even
little Ona--who has asked for a holiday the day after her wedding day,
a holiday without pay, and been refused. While there are so many who
are anxious to work as you wish, there is no occasion for incommoding
yourself with those who must work otherwise.

Little Ona is nearly ready to faint--and half in a stupor herself,
because of the heavy scent in the room. She has not taken a drop, but
every one else there is literally burning alcohol, as the lamps are
burning oil; some of the men who are sound asleep in their chairs or
on the floor are reeking of it so that you cannot go near them. Now
and then Jurgis gazes at her hungrily--he has long since forgotten his
shyness; but then the crowd is there, and he still waits and watches the
door, where a carriage is supposed to come. It does not, and finally he
will wait no longer, but comes up to Ona, who turns white and trembles.
He puts her shawl about her and then his own coat. They live only two
blocks away, and Jurgis does not care about the carriage.

There is almost no farewell--the dancers do not notice them, and all
of the children and many of the old folks have fallen asleep of sheer
exhaustion. Dede Antanas is asleep, and so are the Szedvilases, husband
and wife, the former snoring in octaves. There is Teta Elzbieta, and