prompt:
Chapter: Those who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error of judgment
will none the less realise the negative influence on him of the fact
that he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong idea of it. He said
so little that she imagined he had encountered nothing worse than
the ordinary roughness--quitting so soon in the face of this seemed
trifling. He did not want to work.

She was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the second act
of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the new potentate
as the treasures of his harem. There was no word assigned to any of
them, but on the evening when Hurstwood was housing himself in the
loft of the street-car barn, the leading comedian and star, feeling
exceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which created a ripple
of laughter:

"Well, who are you?"

It merely happened to be Carrie who was courtesying before him. It might
as well have been any of the others, so far as he was concerned. He
expected no answer and a dull one would have been reproved. But Carrie,
whose experience and belief in herself gave her daring, courtesied
sweetly again and answered:

"I am yours truly."

It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she did it
caught the audience, which laughed heartily at the mock-fierce potentate
towering before the young woman. The comedian also liked it, hearing the
laughter.

"I thought your name was Smith," he returned, endeavouring to get the
last laugh.

Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. All
members of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or
"business" meant a fine or worse. She did not know what to think.

As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaiting
another entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused in
recognition.

"You can just leave that in hereafter," he remarked, seeing how
intelligent she appeared. "Don't add any more, though."

"Thank you," said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she found herself
trembling violently.

"Well, you're in luck," remarked another member of the chorus. "There
isn't another one of us has got a line."

There was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in the company
realised that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herself when next
evening the lines got the same applause. She went home rejoicing,
knowing that soon something must come of it. It was Hurstwood who, by
his presence, caused her merry thoughts to flee and replaced them with
sharp longings for an end of distress.

The next day she asked him about his venture.

"They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They don't want
anybody just now--not before next week."

Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed more
apathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and the like
with the utmost calm. He read and read. Several times he found himself
staring at an item, but thinking of something else. The first of these
lapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilarious party he had once
attended at a driving club, of which he had been a member. He sat,
gazing downward, and gradually thought he heard the old voices and the
clink of glasses.

"You're a dandy, Hurstwood," his friend Walker said. He was standing
again well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient of encores for
a good story.

All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed ghostlike.
He heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had been
dozing. The paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the items
he had been reading so directly before him, that he rid himself of the
doze idea. Still, it seemed peculiar. When it occurred a second time,
however, it did not seem quite so strange.

Butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man--not the group with whom he
was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit--called. He
met them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. At last he became bold,
pretended to be out, or waved them off.

"They can't get blood out of a turnip," he said, "if I had it I'd pay
them."

Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing her succeeding, had
become a sort of satellite. Little Osborne could never of herself amount
to anything. She seemed to realise it in a sort of pussy-like way and
instinctively concluded to cling with her soft little claws to Carrie.

"Oh, you'll get up," she kept telling Carrie with admiration. "You're so
good."

Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance of
others made her feel as if she must, and when she must she dared.
Experience of the world and of necessity was in her favour. No longer
the lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. She had learned that men
could change and fail. Flattery in its most palpable form had lost its
force with her. It required superiority--kindly superiority--to move
her--the superiority of a genius like Ames.

"I don't like the actors in our company," she told Lola one day.
"They're all so struck on themselves."

"Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice?" inquired Lola, who had
received a condescending smile or two from that quarter.

"Oh, he's nice enough," answered Carrie; "but he isn't sincere. He
assumes such an air."

Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner:

"Are you paying room-rent where you are?"

"Certainly," answered Carrie. "Why?"

"I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap. It's too
big for me, but it would be just right for two, and the rent is only six
dollars a week for both."

"Where?" said Carrie.

"In Seventeenth Street."

"Well, I don't know as I'd care to change," said Carrie, who was already
turning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She was thinking if she
had only herself to support this would leave her seventeen for herself.

Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure of Hurstwood's
and her success with the speaking part. Then she began to feel as if she
must be free. She thought of leaving Hurstwood and thus making him act
for himself, but he had developed such peculiar traits she feared he
might resist any effort to throw him off. He might hunt her out at
the show and hound her in that way. She did not wholly believe that he
would, but he might. This, she knew, would be an embarrassing thing if
he made himself conspicuous in any way. It troubled her greatly.

Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of the
actresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice of leaving
and Carrie was selected.

"How much are you going to get?" asked Miss Osborne, on hearing the good
news.

"I didn't ask him," said Carrie.

"Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you don't ask.
Tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow."

"Oh, no," said Carrie.

"Certainly!" exclaimed Lola. "Ask 'em, anyway."

Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the manager
gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the part.

"How much do I get?" she inquired.

"Thirty-five dollars," he replied.

Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of mentioning
forty. She was nearly beside herself, and almost hugged Lola, who clung
to her at the news.

"It isn't as much as you ought to get," said the latter, "especially
when you've got to buy clothes."

Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She had
none laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing near.

"I'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "I don't use the
flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll move."

Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more urgent
than ever.

"Come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "We can have the loveliest
room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way."

"I'd like to," said Carrie, frankly.

"Oh, do," said Lola. "We'll have such a good time."

Carrie thought a while.

"I believe I will," she said, and then added: "I'll have to see first,
though." With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothes
calling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse in Hurstwood's
lassitude. He said less and drooped more than ever.

As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered by the
demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many more.
Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "It's hard on her," he
thought. "We could get a cheaper place."

Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table.

"Don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked.

"Indeed I do," said Carrie, not catching his drift.

"I should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "We don't
need four rooms."

Her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would have exhibited the
disturbance she felt at this evidence of his determination to stay by
her. He saw nothing remarkable in asking her to come down lower.

"Oh, I don't know," she answered, growing wary.

"There must be places around here where we could get a couple of rooms,
which would do just as well."

Her heart revolted. "Never!" she thought. Who would furnish the money to
move? To think of being in two rooms with him! She resolved to spend her
money for clothes quickly, before something terrible happened. That very
day she did it. Having done so, there was but one other thing to do.

"Lola," she said, visiting her friend, "I think I'll come."

"Oh, jolly!" cried the latter.

"Can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room.

"Certainly," cried Lola.

They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from her
expenditures--enough for this and her board beside. Her enlarged salary
would not begin for ten days yet--would not reach her for seventeen. She
paid half of the six dollars with her friend.

"Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week," she confided.

"Oh, I've got some," said Lola. "I've got twenty-five dollars, if you
need it."

"No," said Carrie. "I guess I'll get along."

They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that the
thing was settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very much like a
criminal in the matter. Each day looking at Hurstwood, she had realised
that, along with the disagreeableness of his attitude, there was
something pathetic.

She looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to go, and
now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run down and beaten
upon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face marked, his hands
flabby. She thought his hair had a touch of grey. All unconscious of his
doom, he rocked and read his paper, while she glanced at him.

Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous.

"Will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she asked Hurstwood,
laying down a two-dollar bill.

"Certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money.

"See if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "I'll cook it for
dinner."

Hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and getting
his hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of apparel were old
and poor looking in appearance. It was plain enough before, but now it
came home with peculiar force. Perhaps he couldn't help it, after all.
He had done well in Chicago. She remembered his fine appearance the days
he had met her in the park. Then he was so sprightly, so clean. Had it
been all his fault?

He came back and laid the change down with the food.

"You'd better keep it," she observed. "We'll need other things."

"No," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it."

"Oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "There'll be
other things."

He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had become in
her eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from showing a quaver
in her voice.

To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case. She
had looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and had regretted
that she had served him so badly. She hoped she would never meet him
again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not that she had any choice
in the final separation. She had gone willingly to seek him, with
sympathy in her heart, when Hurstwood had reported him ill. There was
something cruel somewhere, and not being able to track it mentally
to its logical lair, she concluded with feeling that he would never
understand what Hurstwood had done and would see hard-hearted decision
in her deed; hence her shame. Not that she cared for him. She did not
want to make any one who had been good to her feel badly.

She did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings to
possess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived better of her.
"Carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought.

Going to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that little lady
packing and singing.

"Why don't you come over with me today?" she asked.

"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "I'll be there Friday. Would you mind
lending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?"

"Why, no," said Lola, going for her purse.

"I want to get some other things," said Carrie.

"Oh, that's all right," answered the little girl, good-naturedly, glad
to be of service. It had been days since Hurstwood had done more than
go to the grocery or to the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors was
upon him--had been for two days--but chill, grey weather had held him
back. Friday broke fair and warm. It was one of those lovely harbingers
of spring, given as a sign in dreary winter that earth is not forsaken
of warmth and beauty. The blue heaven, holding its one golden orb,
poured down a crystal wash of warm light. It was plain, from the voice
of the sparrows, that all was halcyon outside. Carrie raised the front
windows, and felt the south wind blowing.

"It's lovely out to-day," she remarked.

"Is it?" said Hurstwood.

After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes.

"Will you be back for lunch?" asked Carrie nervously.

"No," he said.

He went out into the streets and tramped north, along Seventh Avenue,
idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point. He had seen
some ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers. He
wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing.

Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central Park,
which he followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then he remembered the
neighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildings erected.
It was very much improved. The great open spaces were filling up. Coming
back, he kept to the Park until 110th Street, and then turned into
Seventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one o'clock.

There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the clear
light, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall,
tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like atmosphere woke him to
a sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stood looking at it,
folding his hands behind his back. Then he turned and followed it toward
the east side, idly seeking the ships he had seen. It was four o'clock
before the waning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening, caused
him to return. He was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warm room.

When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. He knew
that Carrie was not there, not only because there was no light showing
through the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck between
the outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and went in.
Everything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down, preparing to
wait a little while. Even if Carrie did come now, dinner would be late.
He read until six, then got up to fix something for himself.

As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. What
was it? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an
envelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almost
without further action on his part.

Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even while
he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud. Green
paper money lay soft within the note.

"Dear George," he read, crunching the money in one hand, "I'm going
away. I'm not coming back any more. It's no use trying to keep up the
flat; I can't do it. I wouldn't mind helping you, if I could, but I
can't support us both, and pay the rent. I need what little I make to
pay for my clothes. I'm leaving twenty dollars. It's all I have just
now. You can do whatever you like with the furniture. I won't want
it.--CARRIE."

He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what he
missed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. It had gone
from the mantelpiece. He went into the front room, his bedroom, the
parlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonier had gone
the knick-knacks of silver and plate. From the table-top, the lace
coverings. He opened the wardrobe--no clothes of hers. He opened the
drawers--nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from its accustomed place.
Back in his own room hung his old clothes, just as he had left them.
Nothing else was gone.

He stepped into the parlour and stood for a few moments looking vacantly
at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flat seemed
wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, that it was
only dinner-time. It seemed later in the night.

Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There were
twenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back, leaving the
lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty.

"I'll get out of this," he said to himself.

Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full.

"Left me!" he muttered, and repeated, "left me!"

The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many days
of warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and chillier confronted
him. He sank down in his chair, resting his chin in his hand--mere
sensation, without thought, holding him.

Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over him.

"She needn't have gone away," he said. "I'd have got something."

He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out loud:

"I tried, didn't I?"

At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Hurstwood doesn't provide Carrie with the gory details of his involvement in the strike, and she assumes he quit the job out of laziness. While Hurstwood's been working, Carrie has managed to work her way up, and now has an entire line to say in the play she's acting in. At home, Hurstwood goes back to rocking, reading the paper, and daydreaming about his old life. Lola asks Carrie if she wants to move in together so they can both save money on rent , but Carrie tells her she isn't sure. Then Carrie gets an even better role in the play, which comes with a much bigger salary, so she decides to take Lola up on the offer to become roomies. At the same time, Hurstwood suggests to Carrie that they should move to an even smaller place to save money. She can't even bear the thought though, and tells Lola that she's definitely up for moving in together. The two of them find a place. With the move now only two days away, Carrie still hasn't told Hurstwood. She starts feeling a little sorry for him, so she gives him some money and asks him to go get food so she can cook them a nice dinner. When he comes back, the guilt-ridden Carrie tells him to keep the change. He thinks this is a little weird and starts to wonder if something's up. Carrie goes to Lola's apartment and finds her packing; she asks to borrow twenty-five dollars that Lola had promised to lend her. Meanwhile, Hurstwood ventures out for a walk. Warning: you may need some Kleenex for the next scene. Hurstwood gets back a few hours later to an empty apartment and notices an envelope near his chair. Uh-oh. He opens it and finds twenty bucks and a note from Carrie. She's not coming back, but he should feel free to sell her furniture, she writes. Hurstwood sees that she's taken her clothes and belongings, and the whole place seems incredibly empty and lonely now. Sniff. Hurstwood sits down in the rocker, but he can't even rock.


prompt:
Chapter: Installed in her comfortable room, Carrie wondered how Hurstwood had
taken her departure. She arranged a few things hastily and then left for
the theatre, half expecting to encounter him at the door. Not finding
him, her dread lifted, and she felt more kindly toward him. She quite
forgot him until about to come out, after the show, when the chance of
his being there frightened her. As day after day passed and she heard
nothing at all, the thought of being bothered by him passed. In a little
while she was, except for occasional thoughts, wholly free of the gloom
with which her life had been weighed in the flat.

It is curious to note how quickly a profession absorbs one. Carrie
became wise in theatrical lore, hearing the gossip of little Lola. She
learned what the theatrical papers were, which ones published items
about actresses and the like. She began to read the newspaper notices,
not only of the opera in which she had so small a part, but of others.
Gradually the desire for notice took hold of her. She longed to be
renowned like others, and read with avidity all the complimentary or
critical comments made concerning others high in her profession. The
showy world in which her interest lay completely absorbed her.

It was about this time that the newspapers and magazines were beginning
to pay that illustrative attention to the beauties of the stage which
has since become fervid. The newspapers, and particularly the Sunday
newspapers, indulged in large decorative theatrical pages, in which the
faces and forms of well-known theatrical celebrities appeared, enclosed
with artistic scrolls. The magazines also or at least one or two of the
newer ones--published occasional portraits of pretty stars, and now and
again photos of scenes from various plays. Carrie watched these with
growing interest. When would a scene from her opera appear? When would
some paper think her photo worth while?

The Sunday before taking her new part she scanned the theatrical pages
for some little notice. It would have accorded with her expectations if
nothing had been said, but there in the squibs, tailing off several
more substantial items, was a wee notice. Carrie read it with a tingling
body:

"The part of Katisha, the country maid, in 'The Wives of Abdul' at the
Broadway, heretofore played by Inez Carew, will be hereafter filled by
Carrie Madenda, one of the cleverest members of the chorus."

Carrie hugged herself with delight. Oh, wasn't it just fine! At last!
The first, the long-hoped for, the delightful notice! And they called
her clever. She could hardly restrain herself from laughing loudly. Had
Lola seen it?

"They've got a notice here of the part I'm going to play to-morrow
night," said Carrie to her friend.

"Oh, jolly! Have they?" cried Lola, running to her. "That's all right,"
she said, looking. "You'll get more now, if you do well. I had my
picture in the 'World' once."

"Did you?" asked Carrie.

"Did I? Well, I should say," returned the little girl. "They had a frame
around it."

Carrie laughed.

"They've never published my picture."

"But they will," said Lola. "You'll see. You do better than most that
get theirs in now."

Carrie felt deeply grateful for this. She almost loved Lola for the
sympathy and praise she extended. It was so helpful to her--so almost
necessary.

Fulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papers that
she was doing her work acceptably. This pleased her immensely. She began
to think the world was taking note of her.

The first week she got her thirty-five dollars, it seemed an enormous
sum. Paying only three dollars for room rent seemed ridiculous. After
giving Lola her twenty-five, she still had seven dollars left. With four
left over from previous earnings, she had eleven. Five of this went to
pay the regular installment on the clothes she had to buy. The next week
she was even in greater feather. Now, only three dollars need be paid
for room rent and five on her clothes. The rest she had for food and her
own whims.

"You'd better save a little for summer," cautioned Lola. "We'll probably
close in May."

"I intend to," said Carrie.

The regular entrance of thirty-five dollars a week to one who has
endured scant allowances for several years is a demoralising thing.
Carrie found her purse bursting with good green bills of comfortable
denominations. Having no one dependent upon her, she began to buy pretty
clothes and pleasing trinkets, to eat well, and to ornament her room.
Friends were not long in gathering about. She met a few young men who
belonged to Lola's staff. The members of the opera company made her
acquaintance without the formality of introduction. One of these
discovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolled home with
her.

"Let's stop in and have a rarebit," he suggested one midnight.

"Very well," said Carrie.

In the rosy restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of late hours,
she found herself criticising this man. He was too stilted, too
self-opinionated. He did not talk of anything that lifted her above the
common run of clothes and material success. When it was all over, he
smiled most graciously.

"Got to go straight home, have you?" he said.

"Yes," she answered, with an air of quiet understanding.

"She's not so inexperienced as she looks," he thought, and thereafter
his respect and ardour were increased.

She could not help sharing in Lola's love for a good time. There were
days when they went carriage riding, nights when after the show they
dined, afternoons when they strolled along Broadway, tastefully dressed.
She was getting in the metropolitan whirl of pleasure.

At last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. She had not known
of it, and it took her breath. "Miss Carrie Madenda," it was labelled.
"One of the favourites of 'The Wives of Abdul' company." At Lola's
advice she had had some pictures taken by Sarony. They had got one
there. She thought of going down and buying a few copies of the paper,
but remembered that there was no one she knew well enough to send them
to. Only Lola, apparently, in all the world was interested.

The metropolis is a cold place socially, and Carrie soon found that a
little money brought her nothing. The world of wealth and distinction
was quite as far away as ever. She could feel that there was no warm,
sympathetic friendship back of the easy merriment with which many
approached her. All seemed to be seeking their own amusement, regardless
of the possible sad consequence to others. So much for the lessons of
Hurstwood and Drouet.

In April she learned that the opera would probably last until the middle
or the end of May, according to the size of the audiences. Next season
it would go on the road. She wondered if she would be with it. As usual,
Miss Osborne, owing to her moderate salary, was for securing a home
engagement.

"They're putting on a summer play at the Casino," she announced, after
figuratively putting her ear to the ground. "Let's try and get in that."

"I'm willing," said Carrie.

They tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply again.
That was May 16th. Meanwhile their own show closed May 5th.

"Those that want to go with the show next season," said the manager,
"will have to sign this week."

"Don't you sign," advised Lola. "I wouldn't go."

"I know," said Carrie, "but maybe I can't get anything else."

"Well, I won't," said the little girl, who had a resource in her
admirers. "I went once and I didn't have anything at the end of the
season."

Carrie thought this over. She had never been on the road.

"We can get along," added Lola. "I always have."

Carrie did not sign.

The manager who was putting on the summer skit at the Casino had never
heard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received, her published
picture, and the programme bearing her name had some little weight with
him. He gave her a silent part at thirty dollars a week.

"Didn't I tell you?" said Lola. "It doesn't do you any good to go away
from New York. They forget all about you if you do."

Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the advance
illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papers selected
Carrie's photo along with others to illustrate the announcement. Because
she was very pretty, they gave it excellent space and drew scrolls about
it. Carrie was delighted. Still, the management did not seem to have
seen anything of it. At least, no more attention was paid to her than
before. At the same time there seemed very little in her part. It
consisted of standing around in all sorts of scenes, a silent little
Quakeress. The author of the skit had fancied that a great deal could be
made of such a part, given to the right actress, but now, since it had
been doled out to Carrie, he would as leave have had it cut out.

"Don't kick, old man," remarked the manager. "If it don't go the first
week we will cut it out."

Carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. She practised her
part ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. At the dress
rehearsal she was disconsolate.

"That isn't so bad," said the author, the manager noting the curious
effect which Carrie's blues had upon the part. "Tell her to frown a
little more when Sparks dances."

Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles between
her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly.

"Frown a little more, Miss Madenda," said the stage manager.

Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a rebuke.

"No; frown," he said. "Frown as you did before."

Carrie looked at him in astonishment.

"I mean it," he said. "Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I want to see
how it looks."

It was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was something so
quaint and droll it caught even the manager.

"That is good," he said. "If she'll do that all through, I think it will
take."

Going over to Carrie, he said:

"Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard. Look mad. It'll make
the part really funny."

On the opening night it looked to Carrie as if there were nothing to her
part, after all. The happy, sweltering audience did not seem to see her
in the first act. She frowned and frowned, but to no effect. Eyes were
riveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars.

In the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation, roved with
its eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she was, grey-suited,
sweet-faced, demure, but scowling. At first the general idea was that
she was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuine and not fun at
all. As she went on frowning, looking now at one principal and now at
the other, the audience began to smile. The portly gentlemen in the
front rows began to feel that she was a delicious little morsel. It was
the kind of frown they would have loved to force away with kisses. All
the gentlemen yearned toward her. She was capital.

At last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage, noticed
a giggle where it was not expected. Then another and another. When the
place came for loud applause it was only moderate. What could be the
trouble? He realised that something was up.

All at once, after an exit, he caught sight of Carrie. She was frowning
alone on the stage and the audience was giggling and laughing.

"By George, I won't stand that!" thought the thespian. "I'm not going to
have my work cut up by some one else. Either she quits that when I do my
turn or I quit."

"Why, that's all right," said the manager, when the kick came. "That's
what she's supposed to do. You needn't pay any attention to that."

"But she ruins my work."

"No, she don't," returned the former, soothingly. "It's only a little
fun on the side."

"It is, eh?" exclaimed the big comedian. "She killed my hand all right.
I'm not going to stand that."

"Well, wait until after the show. Wait until to-morrow. We'll see what
we can do."

The next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was the chief
feature of the play. The audience, the more it studied her, the more
it indicated its delight. Every other feature paled beside the quaint,
teasing, delightful atmosphere which Carrie contributed while on the
stage. Manager and company realised she had made a hit.

The critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There were
long notices in praise of the quality of the burlesque, touched with
recurrent references to Carrie. The contagious mirth of the thing was
repeatedly emphasised.

"Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of character work
ever seen on the Casino stage," observed the stage critic of the "Sun."
"It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollery which warms like good wine.
Evidently the part was not intended to take precedence, as Miss Madenda
is not often on the stage, but the audience, with the characteristic
perversity of such bodies, selected for itself. The little Quakeress was
marked for a favourite the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily
held attention and applause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed
curious."

The critic of the "Evening World," seeking as usual to establish a catch
phrase which should "go" with the town, wound up by advising: "If you
wish to be merry, see Carrie frown."

The result was miraculous so far as Carrie's fortune was concerned.
Even during the morning she received a congratulatory message from the
manager.

"You seem to have taken the town by storm," he wrote. "This is
delightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own."

The author also sent word.

That evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a most
pleasant greeting for her.

"Mr. Stevens," he said, referring to the author, "is preparing a little
song, which he would like you to sing next week."

"Oh, I can't sing," returned Carrie.

"It isn't anything difficult. 'It's something that is very simple,' he
says, 'and would suit you exactly.'"

"Of course, I wouldn't mind trying," said Carrie, archly.

"Would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before you
dress?" observed the manager, in addition. "There's a little matter I
want to speak to you about."

"Certainly," replied Carrie.

In that latter place the manager produced a paper.

"Now, of course," he said, "we want to be fair with you in the matter of
salary. Your contract here only calls for thirty dollars a week for
the next three months. How would it do to make it, say, one hundred and
fifty a week and extend it for twelve months?"

"Oh, very well," said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears.

"Supposing, then, you just sign this."

Carrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one,
with the exception of the new figures of salary and time. With a hand
trembling from excitement she affixed her name.

"One hundred and fifty a week!" she murmured, when she was again alone.
She found, after all--as what millionaire has not?--that there was no
realising, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums. It was only a
shimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world of possibilities.

Down in a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel, the brooding Hurstwood read
the dramatic item covering Carrie's success, without at first realising
who was meant. Then suddenly it came to him and he read the whole thing
over again.

"That's her, all right, I guess," he said.

Then he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby.

"I guess she's struck it," he thought, a picture of the old shiny,
plush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, its
carriages, and flowers. Ah, she was in the walled city now! Its splendid
gates had opened, admitting her from a cold, dreary outside. She seemed
a creature afar off--like every other celebrity he had known.

"Well, let her have it," he said. "I won't bother her."

It was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbroken pride.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Carrie's settling into her new digs and wondering what Hurstwood is thinking about her departure. She goes to the theater and fears he might be there, but he's not. She remains scared for the next few days that he might show up at the theater, but he doesn't and the fear passes. Carrie has been reading "the theatrical papers," which are basically the late nineteenth century's version of celebrity-obsessed magazines like US Weekly or People. She thinks it would be awesome to open up one of these magazines and see herself mentioned someday. And then one day, she does. Okay, it's not a five-page spread or anything--just a couple of lines announcing her part as a country maid in "The Wives of Abdul"--but she's totally psyched. She's also super happy that she can spend all of the money she earns on clothes, fancy food, and pimping out her new room. Plus, thanks to her rising-star status, she's suddenly surrounded by new friends and dudes who can't wait to take her out. And then--oh my--Carrie's picture turns up in one of the theatrical papers. She's going to have to hold back the paparazzi now. But there's trouble in paradise as Carrie realizes that while she may have the equivalent of a thousand Twitter followers, she has no real companionship. The show Carrie's in is about to go on the road, but Lola convinces her that going on the road is a bad idea and that they'd be better off auditioning for another local show. They audition and get the parts. Carrie's role is pretty small, but she makes the most of it and becomes an audience favorite. This seems to backfire though: she ends up stealing the show and one of the hotshot stars of the play threatens to quit if the manager doesn't fire her. The manager likes Carrie's performance so much that he keeps her, though, and she gets more publicity in the papers. The manager is so thrilled that he gives her a song to sing in the production and a big time raise . Abruptly shifting gears, we switch over to Hurstwood, who is now living in "a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel"... which is about as bad as it sounds. He's been reading about Carrie in the paper, but you won't find him hunting her down for a piece of the action. No sir--despite his financial woes, his pride kicks in and he resolves not to bug her.


prompt:
Chapter: When Carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night her
dressing-room had been changed.

"You are to use this room, Miss Madenda," said one of the stage lackeys.

No longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small
coop shared with another. Instead, a comparatively large and commodious
chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry overhead. She
breathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations were more physical than
mental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking at all. Heart and body were
having their say.

Gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental
appreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested, and
that politely. The other members of the cast looked at her enviously as
she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she wore all through
the play. All those who had supposedly been her equals and superiors
now smiled the smile of sociability, as much as to say: "How friendly we
have always been." Only the star comedian whose part had been so deeply
injured stalked by himself. Figuratively, he could not kiss the hand
that smote him.

Doing her simple part, Carrie gradually realised the meaning of the
applause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildly guilty of
something--perhaps unworthiness. When her associates addressed her in
the wings she only smiled weakly. The pride and daring of place were not
for her. It never once crossed her mind to be reserved or haughty--to
be other than she had been. After the performances she rode to her room
with Lola, in a carriage provided.

Then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered to
her lips--bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendid salary
had not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. She began
to get letters and cards. A Mr. Withers--whom she did not know from
Adam--having learned by some hook or crook where she resided, bowed
himself politely in.

"You will excuse me for intruding," he said; "but have you been thinking
of changing your apartments?"

"I hadn't thought of it," returned Carrie.

"Well, I am connected with the Wellington--the new hotel on Broadway.
You have probably seen notices of it in the papers."

Carrie recognised the name as standing for one of the newest and most
imposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having a splendid
restaurant.

"Just so," went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment of
familiarity. "We have some very elegant rooms at present which we would
like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind where you
intend to reside for the summer. Our apartments are perfect in every
detail--hot and cold water, private baths, special hall service for
every floor, elevators, and all that. You know what our restaurant is."

Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took her to
be a millionaire.

"What are your rates?" she inquired.

"Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about. Our
regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day."

"Mercy!" interrupted Carrie. "I couldn't pay any such rate as that."

"I know how you feel about it," exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. "But
just let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every
other hotel we make special ones however. Possibly you have not thought
about it, but your name is worth something to us." "Oh!" ejaculated
Carrie, seeing at a glance.

"Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A
well-known actress like yourself," and he bowed politely, while Carrie
flushed, "draws attention to the hotel, and--although you may not
believe it--patrons."

"Oh, yes," returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious
proposition in her mind.

"Now," continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and beating
one of his polished shoes upon the floor, "I want to arrange, if
possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You need not
trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them. Anything
will do for the summer--a mere figure--anything that you think you could
afford to pay."

Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance.

"You can come to-day or to-morrow--the earlier the better--and we will
give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms--the very best we
have."

"You're very kind," said Carrie, touched by the agent's extreme
affability. "I should like to come very much. I would want to pay what
is right, however. I shouldn't want to----"

"You need not trouble about that at all," interrupted Mr. Withers.
"We can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If three
dollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All you have
to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of the week or month,
just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what the rooms
would cost if charged for at our regular rates."

The speaker paused.

"Suppose you come and look at the rooms," he added.

"I'd be glad to," said Carrie, "but I have a rehearsal this morning."

"I did not mean at once," he returned. "Any time will do. Would this
afternoon be inconvenient?"

"Not at all," said Carrie.

Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time.

"I have a room-mate," she added, "who will have to go wherever I do. I
forgot about that."

"Oh, very well," said Mr. Withers, blandly. "It is for you to say whom
you want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suit yourself."

He bowed and backed toward the door.

"At four, then, we may expect you?"

"Yes," said Carrie.

"I will be there to show you," and so Mr. Withers withdrew.

After rehearsal Carrie informed Lola. "Did they really?" exclaimed the
latter, thinking of the Wellington as a group of managers. "Isn't that
fine? Oh, jolly! It's so swell. That's where we dined that night we went
with those two Cushing boys. Don't you know?"

"I remember," said Carrie.

"Oh, it's as fine as it can be."

"We'd better be going up there," observed Carrie later in the afternoon.

The rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola were three and
bath--a suite on the parlour floor. They were done in chocolate and dark
red, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windows looked down into
busy Broadway on the east, three into a side street which crossed there.
There were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass and white enamel beds,
white ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to match. In the third room,
or parlour, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp, with a shade of gorgeous
pattern, a library table, several huge easy rockers, some dado book
shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with oddities. Pictures were upon
the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon the divan footstools of brown plush
upon the floor. Such accommodations would ordinarily cost a hundred
dollars a week.

"Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Lola, walking about.

"It is comfortable," said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and
looking down into crowded Broadway.

The bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a large,
blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright and
commodious, with a bevelled mirror set in the wall at one end and
incandescent lights arranged in three places.

"Do you find these satisfactory?" observed Mr. Withers.

"Oh, very," answered Carrie.

"Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are ready.
The boy will bring you the keys at the door."

Carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the marbled
lobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as she had often
dreamed of occupying.

"I guess we'd better move right away, don't you think so?" she observed
to Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in Seventeenth Street.

"Oh, by all means," said the latter.

The next day her trunks left for the new abode.

Dressing, after the matinee on Wednesday, a knock came at her
dressing-room door.

Carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock of
surprise.

"Tell her I'll be right out," she said softly. Then, looking at the
card, added: "Mrs. Vance."

"Why, you little sinner," the latter exclaimed, as she saw Carrie coming
toward her across the now vacant stage. "How in the world did this
happen?"

Carrie laughed merrily. There was no trace of embarrassment in her
friend's manner. You would have thought that the long separation had
come about accidentally.

"I don't know," returned Carrie, warming, in spite of her first troubled
feelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron.

"Well, you know, I saw your picture in the Sunday paper, but your name
threw me off. I thought it must be you or somebody that looked just like
you, and I said: 'Well, now, I will go right down there and see.' I was
never more surprised in my life. How are you, anyway?"

"Oh, very well," returned Carrie. "How have you been?"

"Fine. But aren't you a success! Dear, oh! All the papers talking about
you. I should think you would be just too proud to breathe. I was almost
afraid to come back here this afternoon."

"Oh, nonsense," said Carrie, blushing. "You know I'd be glad to see
you."

"Well, anyhow, here you are. Can't you come up and take dinner with me
now? Where are you stopping?"

"At the Wellington," said Carrie, who permitted herself a touch of pride
in the acknowledgment.

"Oh, are you?" exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was not without
its proper effect.

Tactfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hurstwood, of whom she
could not help thinking. No doubt Carrie had left him. That much she
surmised.

"Oh, I don't think I can," said Carrie, "to-night. I have so little
time. I must be back here by 7.30. Won't you come and dine with me?"

"I'd be delighted, but I can't to-night," said Mrs. Vance studying
Carrie's fine appearance. The latter's good fortune made her seem
more than ever worthy and delightful in the others eyes. "I promised
faithfully to be home at six." Glancing at the small gold watch pinned
to her bosom, she added: "I must be going, too. Tell me when you're
coming up, if at all."

"Why, any time you like," said Carrie.

"Well, to-morrow then. I'm living at the Chelsea now."

"Moved again?" exclaimed Carrie, laughing.

"Yes. You know I can't stay six months in one place. I just have to
move. Remember now--half-past five."

"I won't forget," said Carrie, casting a glance at her as she went away.
Then it came to her that she was as good as this woman now--perhaps
better. Something in the other's solicitude and interest made her feel
as if she were the one to condescend.

Now, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by the doorman at
the Casino. This was a feature which had rapidly developed since Monday.
What they contained she well knew. MASH NOTES were old affairs in their
mildest form. She remembered having received her first one far back
in Columbia City. Since then, as a chorus girl, she had received
others--gentlemen who prayed for an engagement. They were common sport
between her and Lola, who received some also. They both frequently made
light of them.

Now, however, they came thick and fast. Gentlemen with fortunes did
not hesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiable collection of
virtues, that they had their horses and carriages. Thus one:

"I have a million in my own right. I could give you every luxury. There
isn't anything you could ask for that you couldn't have. I say this, not
because I want to speak of my money, but because I love you and wish to
gratify your every desire. It is love that prompts me to write. Will you
not give me one half-hour in which to plead my cause?"

Such of these letters as came while Carrie was still in the Seventeenth
Street place were read with more interest--though never delight--than
those which arrived after she was installed in her luxurious quarters at
the Wellington. Even there her vanity--or that self-appreciation which,
in its more rabid form, is called vanity--was not sufficiently cloyed to
make these things wearisome. Adulation, being new in any form, pleased
her. Only she was sufficiently wise to distinguish between her old
condition and her new one. She had not had fame or money before. Now
they had come. She had not had adulation and affectionate propositions
before. Now they had come. Wherefore? She smiled to think that men
should suddenly find her so much more attractive. In the least way it
incited her to coolness and indifference.

"Do look here," she remarked to Lola. "See what this man says: 'If
you will only deign to grant me one half-hour,'" she repeated, with an
imitation of languor. "The idea. Aren't men silly?"

"He must have lots of money, the way he talks," observed Lola. "That's
what they all say," said Carrie, innocently.

"Why don't you see him," suggested Lola, "and hear what he has to say?"

"Indeed I won't," said Carrie. "I know what he'd say. I don't want to
meet anybody that way."

Lola looked at her with big, merry eyes.

"He couldn't hurt you," she returned. "You might have some fun with
him."

Carrie shook her head.

"You're awfully queer," returned the little, blue-eyed soldier.

Thus crowded fortune. For this whole week, though her large salary had
not yet arrived, it was as if the world understood and trusted her.
Without money--or the requisite sum, at least--she enjoyed the luxuries
which money could buy. For her the doors of fine places seemed to open
quite without the asking. These palatial chambers, how marvellously they
came to her. The elegant apartments of Mrs. Vance in the Chelsea--these
were hers. Men sent flowers, love notes, offers of fortune. And still
her dreams ran riot. The one hundred and fifty! the one hundred and
fifty! What a door to an Aladdin's cave it seemed to be. Each day, her
head almost turned by developments, her fancies of what her fortune must
be, with ample money, grew and multiplied. She conceived of delights
which were not--saw lights of joy that never were on land or sea. Then,
at last, after a world of anticipation, came her first installment of
one hundred and fifty dollars.

It was paid to her in greenbacks--three twenties, six tens, and six
fives. Thus collected it made a very convenient roll. It was accompanied
by a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it.

"Ah, yes," said the latter, when she applied; "Miss Madenda--one hundred
and fifty dollars. Quite a success the show seems to have made."

"Yes, indeed," returned Carrie.

Right after came one of the insignificant members of the company, and
she heard the changed tone of address.

"How much?" said the same cashier, sharply. One, such as she had only
recently been, was waiting for her modest salary. It took her back to
the few weeks in which she had collected--or rather had received--almost
with the air of a domestic, four-fifty per week from a lordly foreman in
a shoe factory--a man who, in distributing the envelopes, had the manner
of a prince doling out favours to a servile group of petitioners. She
knew that out in Chicago this very day the same factory chamber was full
of poor homely-clad girls working in long lines at clattering machines;
that at noon they would eat a miserable lunch in a half-hour; that
Saturday they would gather, as they had when she was one of them, and
accept the small pay for work a hundred times harder than she was now
doing. Oh, it was so easy now! The world was so rosy and bright. She
felt so thrilled that she must needs walk back to the hotel to think,
wondering what she should do.

It does not take money long to make plain its impotence, providing the
desires are in the realm of affection. With her one hundred and fifty in
hand, Carrie could think of nothing particularly to do. In itself, as a
tangible, apparent thing which she could touch and look upon, it was a
diverting thing for a few days, but this soon passed. Her hotel bill
did not require its use. Her clothes had for some time been wholly
satisfactory. Another day or two and she would receive another hundred
and fifty. It began to appear as if this were not so startlingly
necessary to maintain her present state. If she wanted to do anything
better or move higher she must have more--a great deal more.

Now a critic called to get up one of those tinsel interviews which shine
with clever observations, show up the wit of critics, display the folly
of celebrities, and divert the public. He liked Carrie, and said so,
publicly--adding, however, that she was merely pretty, good-natured, and
lucky. This cut like a knife. The "Herald," getting up an entertainment
for the benefit of its free ice fund, did her the honour to beg her to
appear along with celebrities for nothing. She was visited by a young
author, who had a play which he thought she could produce. Alas, she
could not judge. It hurt her to think it. Then she found she must put
her money in the bank for safety, and so moving, finally reached the
place where it struck her that the door to life's perfect enjoyment was
not open.

Gradually she began to think it was because it was summer. Nothing was
going on much save such entertainments as the one in which she was the
star. Fifth Avenue was boarded up where the rich had deserted their
mansions. Madison Avenue was little better. Broadway was full of loafing
thespians in search of next season's engagements. The whole city was
quiet and her nights were taken up with her work. Hence the feeling that
there was little to do.

"I don't know," she said to Lola one day, sitting at one of the windows
which looked down into Broadway, "I get lonely; don't you?"

"No," said Lola, "not very often. You won't go anywhere. That's what's
the matter with you."

"Where can I go?"

"Why, there're lots of places," returned Lola, who was thinking of her
own lightsome tourneys with the gay youths. "You won't go with anybody."

"I don't want to go with these people who write to me. I know what kind
they are."

"You oughtn't to be lonely," said Lola, thinking of Carrie's success.
"There're lots would give their ears to be in your shoes."

Carrie looked out again at the passing crowd.

"I don't know," she said.

Unconsciously her idle hands were beginning to weary.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Carrie gets her very own dressing room, which is a huge step up in the showbiz world. A representative from the Wellington, a fancy hotel, shows up at Carrie's apartment and convinces her to take some rooms in the place for the summer . Carrie insists she'll need to bring Lola along and the guy says that's okay. He shows them the rooms, and they are ultra-posh. Carrie and Lola agree to take them and move in immediately. One day while Carrie's in her dressing room at the theater, Mrs. Vance stops by. She's read the papers and found out what a big star her old pal Carrie has become. They catch up a little and Mrs. Vance invites her to come over the next day. It dawns on Carrie that "she was as good as this woman now--perhaps better" . Carrie is inundated with fan mail from rich men wanting to marry her , and Lola can't understand why Carrie doesn't want to meet any of these rich dudes in person. Carrie gets her first really big paycheck: $150. She's thrilled to be raking it in now, as she thinks back to earlier days when she was only making a pittance. But things aren't perfect: Carrie is lonely, as she tells Lola, but Lola tells her she just needs to go out more.


prompt:
Chapter: The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had taken
refuge with seventy dollars--the price of his furniture--between him and
nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. He was not
wholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping away. As
fifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's lodging he
became uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room--thirty-five cents a
day--to make his money last longer. Frequently he saw notices of Carrie.
Her picture was in the "World" once or twice, and an old "Herald" he
found in a chair informed him that she had recently appeared with some
others at a benefit for something or other. He read these things with
mingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther and farther away
into a realm which became more imposing as it receded from him. On the
billboards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her as the Quaker Maid,
demure and dainty. More than once he stopped and looked at these, gazing
at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way. His clothes were shabby, and
he presented a marked contrast to all that she now seemed to be.

Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had never
any intention of going near her, there was a subconscious comfort for
him--he was not quite alone. The show seemed such a fixture that,
after a month or two, he began to take it for granted that it was still
running. In September it went on the road and he did not notice it. When
all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-cent
lodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filled
with tables and benches as well as some chairs. Here his preference was
to close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grew upon him.
It was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkening back to scenes and
incidents in his Chicago life. As the present became darker, the past
grew brighter, and all that concerned it stood in relief.

He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until one
day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one of his
friends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if he stood in the
door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed, talking to
Sagar Morrison about the value of South Chicago real estate in which the
latter was about to invest.

"How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard Morrison say.

"Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have my hands
full now."

The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he had really
spoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he really did
talk.

"Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!"

It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of actors. Even
as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A crusty old codger, sitting
near by, seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a most pointed way.
Hurstwood straightened up. The humour of the memory fled in an instant
and he felt ashamed. For relief, he left his chair and strolled out into
the streets.

One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he saw
where a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a mental halt.
Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her only yesterday,
but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs. Curiously, this
fact shook him up. He had almost to admit that somehow he was depending
upon her being in the city. Now she was gone. He wondered how this
important fact had skipped him. Goodness knows when she would be back
now. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall,
where he counted his remaining money, unseen. There were but ten dollars
in all.

He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him
got along. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they
begged--unquestionably they did. Many was the dime he had given to
such as they in his day. He had seen other men asking for money on the
streets. Maybe he could get some that way. There was horror in this
thought.

Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty cents. He
had saved and counted until his health was affected. His stoutness
had gone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in his clothes. Now he
decided he must do something, and, walking about, saw another day go by,
bringing him down to his last twenty cents--not enough to eat for the
morrow.

Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the Broadway
Central hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A big, heavy-faced
porter was standing at one of the side entrances, looking out. Hurstwood
purposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up, he was upon him before
he could turn away.

"My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man's
inferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could get to
do?"

The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk.

"I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something,--it
doesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've been, but if
you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged to you. It
wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. I've got to have
something."

The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeing that
Hurstwood was about to go on, he said:

"I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside."

Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort.

"I thought you might tell me."

The fellow shook his head irritably.

Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk's
desk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwood
looked him straight in the eye.

"Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said. "I'm in a
position where I have to get something at once."

The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well, I
should judge so."

"I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've been a
manager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way but I'm not here to
tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week."

The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye.

"What hotel did you manage?" he inquired.

"It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager of Fitzgerald and
Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years."

"Is that so?" said the hotel man. "How did you come to get out of that?"

The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the fact.

"Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk about now.
You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, if you will
believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day."

The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly
tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness made
him wish to do something.

"Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk.

In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head porter,
appeared.

"Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you could find
for this man to do? I'd like to give him something."

"I don't know, sir," said Olsen. "We have about all the help we need. I
think I could find something, sir, though, if you like."

"Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something to
eat."

"All right, sir," said Olsen.

Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head porter's manner
changed.

"I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed.

Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a subject for
private contempt.

"You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the cook.

The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and
intellectual in his eyes, said:

"Well, sit down over there."

Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for long.
He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists about the
foundation of every hotel. Nothing better offering, he was set to aid
the fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and everything
that might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks--all were over him.
Moreover his appearance did not please these individuals--his temper was
too lonely--and they made it disagreeable for him.

With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he endured it
all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house, eating what the cook
gave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which he tried to save. His
constitution was in no shape to endure.

One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a large coal
company's office. It had been snowing and thawing and the streets were
sloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling dull
and weary. All the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat about
as much as possible, to the irritation of those who admired energy in
others.

In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new
culinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering a big
box, he could not lift it.

"What's the matter there?" said the head porter. "Can't you handle it?"

He was straining to lift it, but now he quit.

"No," he said, weakly.

The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale.

"Not sick, are you?" he asked. "I think I am," returned Hurstwood.

"Well, you'd better go sit down, then."

This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could do to
crawl to his room, where he remained for a day.

"That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to the night
clerk.

"What's the matter with him?"

"I don't know. He's got a high fever."

The hotel physician looked at him.

"Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended. "He's got pneumonia."

Accordingly, he was carted away.

In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of
May before his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he was
discharged.

No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring sunshine
than the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency had fled. His face
was thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby. Clothes and all,
he weighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Some old garments
had been given him--a cheap brown coat and misfit pair of trousers. Also
some change and advice. He was told to apply to the charities.

Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over where to
look. From this it was but a step to beggary.

"What can a man do?" he said. "I can't starve."

His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed man
came leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park. Hurstwood
nerved himself and sidled near.

"Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "I'm in a
position where I must ask some one."

The man scarcely looked at him, fished in his vest pocket and took out a
dime.

"There you are," he said.

"Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no more
attention to him.

Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he decided
that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since that would be
sufficient. He strolled about sizing up people, but it was long before
just the right face and situation arrived. When he asked, he was
refused. Shocked by this result, he took an hour to recover and then
asked again. This time a nickel was given him. By the most watchful
effort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful.

The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a variety of
rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last it crossed his mind
that there was a science of faces, and that a man could pick the liberal
countenance if he tried.

It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by. He saw
one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be arrested.
Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that indefinite something
which is always better.

It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced one
morning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss Carrie Madenda."
He had thought of her often enough in days past. How successful she
was--how much money she must have! Even now, however, it took a severe
run of ill luck to decide him to appeal to her. He was truly hungry
before he said:

"I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars."

Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it several
times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he sat in Bryant
Park, a block away, waiting. "She can't refuse to help me a little," he
kept saying to himself.

Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the
Thirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying
pedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He was
slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but being
weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. At last he saw that
the actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous tension increased,
until it seemed as if he could not stand much more.

Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to see that
he was mistaken.

"She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing to encounter
her and equally depressed at the thought that she might have gone in by
another way. His stomach was so empty that it ached.

Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed, almost
all indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing with
ladies--the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of theatres
and hotels.

Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the door.
Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad walk
and disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw Carrie, but it was
so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly tell. He waited
a while longer, growing feverish with want, and then seeing that the
stage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience was arriving, he
concluded it must have been Carrie and turned away.

"Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the more
fortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something."

At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting
aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner
of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway--a spot which is also intersected by
Fifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatres were just beginning
to receive their patrons. Fire signs announcing the night's amusements
blazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like
yellow eyes, pattered by. Couples and parties of three and four freely
mingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughing
and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers--a few wealthy strollers,
a gentleman in evening dress with his lady on his arm, some club-men
passing from one smoking-room to another. Across the way the great
hotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafes and billiard-rooms
filled with a comfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng.
All about was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and
exhilaration--the curious enthusiasm of a great city bent upon finding
joy in a thousand different ways.

This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned
religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our
peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which he
conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which he chose
to administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted of
securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him at
this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to provide
a comfortable habitation for himself. Taking his place amid this
lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his stocky figure cloaked in a
great cape overcoat, his head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting
the applicants who had in various ways learned the nature of his
charity. For a while he would stand alone, gazing like any idler upon an
ever-fascinating scene. On the evening in question, a policeman
passing saluted him as "captain," in a friendly way. An urchin who had
frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. All others took him for
nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter of dress, and conceived
of him as a stranger whistling and idling for his own amusement.

As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here and
there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loiterer
edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the opposite corner
and glanced furtively in his direction. Another came down Fifth Avenue
to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general survey, and hobbled
off again. Two or three noticeable Bowery types edged along the Fifth
Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not venture over. The soldier, in
his cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and
fro, indifferently whistling.

As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour
passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air, too,
was colder. On every hand curious figures were moving--watchers and
peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid to
enter--a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener sense of
cold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out the shadow
of Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close
to the waiting figure. There was something shamefaced or diffident about
the movement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of stopping
until the very last moment. Then suddenly, close to the soldier, came
the halt.

The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial greeting.
The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waits
for gifts. The other simply motioned to-ward the edge of the walk.

"Stand over there," he said.

By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his short,
solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so much
as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching and
scraping their feet.

"Gold, ain't it?"

"I'm glad winter's over."

"Looks as though it might rain."

The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each other and
conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowd
and yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty, silent, eying
nothing in particular and moving their feet.

There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance.
Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward.

"Beds, eh, all of you?"

There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval.

"Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a cent myself."

They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now, some
of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden leg in
the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become a
second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warped
and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare of the
store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were red
with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two
were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came
near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and
quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the line began to
talk.

"Silence!" exclaimed the captain. "Now, then, gentlemen, these men are
without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. They can't
lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them to bed.
Who will give it to me?"

No reply.

"Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve cents
isn't so very much for one man."

"Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained
eyes. "It's all I can afford."

"All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line," and seizing one
by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him
up alone.

Coming back, he resumed his place and began again.

"I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow. There
are"--counting--"one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,
ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man to bed;
give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right along and
look after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?"

One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-cent
piece.

"Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed. Come,
gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have good beds.
How about these?"

"Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand.

"That," said the captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two beds for
two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me seven cents
more?"

"I will," said a voice.

Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross
east through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly
disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal
extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It would
be eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she would go
away in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances.
Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day must
intervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night. He had no food
and no bed.

When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of
wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or some
patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing the
street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose beds
were already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd. In
the glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a type of
his own kind--the figures whom he saw about the streets and in the
lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself. He wondered what
it could be and turned back.

There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with
astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "These men
must have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunates whose beds
were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a
position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. What use
to contend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of one
difficulty, at least. To-morrow, maybe, he would do better.

Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxed
air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard
them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability.
Politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper
sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, found
mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronounced
forcibly upon odd matters. Vague and rambling observations were made in
reply.

There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from those
who were too dull or too weary to converse.

Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he
should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other.
At last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the
blessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was
talking for him.

"Twelve cents, gentlemen--twelve cents puts this man to bed. He wouldn't
stand here in the cold if he had any place to go."

Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and
weakness had made a coward of him.

"Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain.

Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder. "Line up
over there," he said.

Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world were
not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to feel like
himself about this.

"Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead--a little,
woebegone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as though he
had ever been the sport and care of fortune.

"Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently.

"Huh! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up, leaning out
and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading.

"Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night," said another.

"Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third.

A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill to
the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line.
There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt
front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in awe.

"That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain, counting out
as many of the line near him. "Line up over there. Now, then, there are
only seven. I need twelve cents."

Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to
a meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot
passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. Only
now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a
coin, and went away, unheeding.

The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very slowly,
uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he
could not fail.

"Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting tired and
cold. Some one give me four cents."

There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him,
and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other
line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground.

The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven.
Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men.

"Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteen cents
will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six. Somebody
give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet to-night.
Before that I have to take these men down and put them to bed. Eighteen
cents."

No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several
minutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemed as if
this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the
rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was
a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak.

At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue,
accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both
of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own
wife in like manner.

While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company,
sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers, all
elegant and graceful.

"Here you are," he said.

"Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants.
"Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added.

Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting
as he went.

"One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, line up. Right
dress there. We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now."

He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwood
moved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by the
winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third Avenue wound
the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and loiterers
stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting policemen, at various
corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they had
seen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a seemingly weary way, to
Eighth Street, where there was a lodginghouse, closed, apparently, for
the night. They were expected, however.

Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within. Then
doors swung open and they were invited in with a "Steady, now."

Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay for
keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and saw the
captain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broad
solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into
the night.

"I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him
painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small,
lightless chamber allotted to him. "I've got to eat, or I'll die."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Hurstwood's still over at the cheap hotel where we last saw him . He's been reading about Carrie more in the papers, and he's even seen her on billboards. Time rolls on and Hurstwood is forced to go into a lodging house in the Bowery, which is pretty much one step away from living in a homeless shelter. The poor guy seems also to be losing it a little. He daydreams so often about his old life of luxury that he sometimes starts talking out loud as if he is his old self, disturbing the other men in the boarding house. Hurstwood tries to find work at another hotel. They don't have anything open, but he's such a sorry sight that they take him in as a kind of charity case, letting him sleep in the attic and giving him food in return for doing a few odd jobs. But then he gets pneumonia and someone from the hotel takes him to the hospital where he stays for three weeks. When he gets out, he's got no money and nowhere to go so he starts begging for change. He's ashamed, but desperate. He's become so desperate in fact that he decides to go to the theater where he knows Carrie is performing. He hovers around the entrance, hoping to run into her, but he doesn't find her. Nearby, there's a man who we come to know as the captain, a man described as "an ex-soldier turned religionist." The captain collects money from strangers on the street in order to help homeless people find beds for the night. A crowd forms around him, and Hurstwood drifts into the crowd. The captain collects enough money and then leads them to a boarding house for the night. As Hurstwood climbs into his bunk at the boarding house, he realizes he's starving.