He
might get a dollar on the one and two, if not two and a half, on the
other; which would carry him through till the end of the week when
something else might turn up--something which would not involve too
hard work and would just keep him clear of jail. He turned sharply
down Montgomery Street, crossed Kearney Street, and slipped
noiselessly through the side doorway of a restaurant, in a
suspicious-looking alley, not a hundred yards distant from the
gorgeously illuminated Palace Hotel. Here, within five minutes, he was
served with as good a meal as one could get in San Francisco for the
money--and if the table linen was not as clean as it might have been,
the food was not a whit the less excellent for that. At least so Hamar
thought; and it was not until there was nothing left to eat that he
left off eating. When he thought no one was looking in his direction,
he popped the despised book under his chair and rose to go. Before he
had gone ten yards, however, one of the waiters came running after
him. "Hi, sir, stop, sir!" the fellow cried. "You've left something
behind!" And in spite of Hamar's denials the officious menial
persisted the book was his. In the end Hamar was obliged to submit. He took the book, and rewarded the waiter with curses. Hamar next tried to dispose of it down the area of a Chinese laundry;
but a policeman saw him, and he only escaped being taken up on
suspicion, by parting with a dollar. This was the climax. He did not
dare make any further attempt to dispose of the book, but, with bitter
hatred in his heart, tucked it savagely under his arm, and made direct
for his room in 115th Street. To his annoyance--for under the circumstances he preferred to be
alone--he found two men sitting in front of his empty hearth. They
were Matt Kelson and Ed Curtis; both of whom had been his colleagues
at Meidler, Meidler & Co., in Sacramento Street, and like himself had
been thrown out of work when the firm had "smashed." Since that affair
Hamar had studiously avoided them. It was true he had once been as
friendly with them as he deemed it politic to be friendly with any
one; but now--they were out of employment, and in danger of
starvation. That made all the difference. He did not believe in
poverty encouraging poverty, any more than he believed in charity
among beggars. He had nothing to share with them, not even a thought;
and resolving to get rid of his quondam friends as soon as possible,
he confined his welcome to a frown. "Hulloa! what's the matter?" Kelson exclaimed. "When a man frowns like
that, it usually means he is crossed in love." "Or has an empty stomach, which amounts to the same thing," Curtis
interposed. "Come--let the sun loose, Leon! We've good news for
you!--haven't we, Matt?" Kelson nodded. "What is it, then?" Hamar grunted. "Have you both got cancer?" "No! We've come to borrow from you!" "Then you've come to the wrong shop! I'm about done, and unless
something turns up mighty quick I shall clear out." "For good?" "I don't count on being a ghost nor yet an angel," Hamar said; "when
we've done here, I reckon we've done altogether!" "I shouldn't have thought suicide was in your line," Curtis remarked. "More Matt's. I should have credited you with something more
original." "Original!" Hamar snarled. "I defy any man to be original when he
hasn't a cent, and his stomach contains nothing but air. Give me
money, give me food--then, perhaps, I'll be original." "You don't mean to say you're cleared out of grub!" Kelson and Curtis
cried in chorus. "We've come to you as our last hope. We've neither of
us tasted anything since yesterday." "Then you'll taste nothing again to-day--at least as far as I'm
concerned," Hamar jeered. "I tell you I'm broke--haven't as much as a
crumb in the room; and I've pawned everything, save the clothes you
see me in!" "And yet you can buy books--unless--unless you stole it!" Curtis said,
eyeing with suspicion the volume Hamar had thrown on the table. "Buy it! Not much!" Hamar cried quickly. "It's one I've had all my
life. Belonged to my grandfather. I took it with me to-night to see
what I could raise on it." "And no one would have it? I should guess not," Kelson said, drawing
it towards him. "Why it's got a new label inside--S. Leipman! I know
him. He's slick even for a Jew. This looks as if it belonged to your
grandfather, Leon. If I'm not real mistaken you bought the book
to-night. There's something in it you thought you could make capital
of. Trust you for that. Now I wonder what it was!" "You're welcome to see!" Hamar sneered. "Perhaps you'd like some
water!" "Water! Why water?" "Well, instead of tea or whisky to help digest the book. Besides, it's
the only thing I have to offer you." "Look here, Leon," Curtis interrupted; "what's the good of behaving
like this? We are all in the same boat--starving--desperate. So let us
lay our heads together and see if we can't think of something--some
way out of it." "A Burglary Company Limited, for instance!" Hamar sneered. "No! I'm
not having any. I've neither tools nor experience. The San Francisco
police handle one roughly, so I'm told, and hard labour isn't to my
liking." "There are other things besides burglary!" Curtis said in tones of
annoyance. "We might work a fake." "If I work anything of that sort," Hamar said hastily, "I work alone. Think of something else." "I tell you Matt and I are pretty well desperate," Curtis cried, "and
if we don't think of something soon, we shan't be able to think at
all. We've tried our level best to get work--we've answered every
likely and unlikely advertisement in the papers--and all to no
purpose. So if Providence won't help us we must help ourselves. Robbery, burglary, fakes, anything short of murder--it's all the same
to us now--we're tired of starving--dead sick of it. We would do
anything, sell our very souls for a meal. My God! I never imagined how
terrible it is to feel so hungry. You appear to be interested, Matt. What is it?" "Why, look here, you fellows!" Kelson said slowly. "This book is all
about a place called Atlantis that is said to have existed in the
Atlantic Ocean between America and Ireland, and to have been deluged
by an earthquake owing to the wickedness of its inhabitants. They
practised sorcery." "Practised foolery," Hamar said. "It's tosh--all tosh! Wickedness is
only a matter of climate--and there's no such thing as sorcery." "So I thought," Kelson replied; "but I'm not so sure now. The author
of this book writes darned sensibly, and is apparently at no loss for
corroborative testimony. He was a professor too. See! Thomas Henry
Maitland, at one time Professor of English at the University of Basle
in Switzerland. There's an asterisk against his name and a footnote in
very old-fashioned handwriting--the 's's' are all 'f's,' and half the
letters capitals. Listen--

    "'Thomas Maitland, despite the remonstrances of his friends,
    visited Spain.