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Morris, recovered, warmly thanked him. Frank said huskily, his eyes on his scarred and heavy hands, that he was new to the neighborhood but living here now with a married sister. He had lately come from the West and was looking for a better job. The grocer offered him a cup of coffee, which he at once accepted. As he sat down Frank placed his hat on the floor at his feet, and he drank the coffee with three heaping spoonfuls of sugar, to get warm quick, he said. When Morris offered him a seeded hard roll, he bit into it hungrily. "Jesus, this is good bread." After he had finished he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, then swept the crumbs off the table with one hand into the other, and though Morris protested, he rinsed the cup and saucer at the sink, dried them and set them on top of the gas range, where the grocer had got them. "Much obliged for everything." He had picked up his hat but made no move to leave. "Once in San Francisco I worked in a grocery for a couple of months," he remarked after a minute, "only it was one of those supermarket chain store deals." "The chain store kills the small man." "Personally I like a small store myself. I might someday have one." "A store is a prison. Look for something better." "At least you're your own boss." "To be a boss of nothing is nothing." "Still and all, the idea of it appeals to me. The only thing is I would need experience on what goods to order. I mean about brand names, and et cetera. I guess I ought to look for a job in a store and get more experience." "Try the A &P," advised the grocer. "I might." Morris dropped the subject. The man put on his hat. "What's the matter," he said, staring at the grocer's bandage, "did you have some kind of an accident to your head?" Morris nodded. He didn't care to talk about it, so the stranger, somehow disappointed, left. He happened to be in the street very early on Monday when Morris was again struggling with the milk cases. The stranger tipped his hat and said he was off to the city to find a job but he had time to help him pull in the milk. This he did and quickly left. However, the grocer thought he saw him pass by in the other direction about an hour later. That afternoon when he went for his Forward he noticed him sitting at the fountain with Sam Pearl. The next morning, just after six, Frank was there to help him haul in the milk bottles and he willingly accepted when Morris, who knew a poor man when he saw one, invited him for coffee. "How is going now the job?" Morris asked as they were eating. "So-so," said Frank, his glance shifting. He seemed preoccupied, nervous. Every few minutes he would set down his cup and uneasily look around. His lips parted as if to speak, his eyes took on a tormented expression, but then he shut his jaw as if he had decided it was better never to say what he intended. He seemed to need to talk, broke into sweat-his brow gleamed with it-his pupils widening as he struggled. He looked to Morris like someone who had to retch-no matter where; but after a brutal interval his eyes grew dull. He sighed heavily and gulped down the last of his coffee. After, he brought up a belch. This for a moment satisfied him. Whatever he wants to say, Morris thought, let him say it to somebody else. I am only a grocer. He shifted in his chair, fearing to catch some illness. Again the tall man leaned forward, drew a breath and once more was at the point of speaking, but now a shudder passed through him, followed by a fit of shivering. The grocer hastened to the stove and poured out a cup of steaming coffee. Frank swallowed it in two terrible gulps. He soon stopped shaking, but looked defeated, humiliated, like somebody, the grocer felt, who had lost out on something he had wanted badly. "You caught a cold?" he asked sympathetically. The stranger nodded, scratched up a match on the sole of his cracked shoe, lit a cigarette and sat there, listless. "I had a rough life," he muttered, and lapsed into silence. Neither of them