walked more than two miles to where he now was. Midday meal he had none,
and in the late afternoon he walked home and arranged their supper of
bread, potatoes, or whatever else he considered he could afford to buy.
Philip questioned him as to his earnings and was told that they varied
with the weather and other conditions, the maximum had been a dollar and
fifteen cents for one day, the minimum twenty cents. The average seemed
around fifty cents, and this was to shelter, clothe and feed a family of
four.

Already Gloria's eyes were dimmed with tears. Philip asked if they might
go home with him then. The child consented and led the way.

They had not gone far, when Philip, noticing how frail Peter was, hailed
a car, and they rode to Grand Street, changed there and went east.
Midway between the Bowery and the river, they got out and walked south
for a few blocks, turned into a side street that was hardly more than an
alley, and came to the tenement where Peter lived.

It had been a hot day even in the wide, clean portions of the city.
Here the heat was almost unbearable, and the stench, incident to a
congested population, made matters worse.

Ragged and dirty children were playing in the street. Lack of food and
pure air, together with unsanitary surroundings, had set its mark upon
them. The deathly pallor that was in Peter's face was characteristic of
most of the faces around them.

The visitors climbed four flights of stairs, and went down a long, dark,
narrow hall reeking with disagreeable odors, and finally entered ten-
year-old Peter Turner's "home."