ARTHUR
9

I haven't done more than half of my trip, but my wallet is completely exhausted. This is an example of the cost incurred to stay in an inn. If I enter the city, a tavern should, at least for some time, be my residence; but I have no money left to pay my bills. My dad used to host a hostel for a dollar a week, and, if necessary, if necessary, I was willing to live at a rougher rate and lay on a harder bed than the one reserved for our guests. These facts have been the basis of my negligence on this occasion.

What's to do now? To return to my father's house is impossible. Letting go of my plan to enter the city and seek asylum while, if not a steady job, on one of the estates in sight, is the most obvious way. This consideration does not reduce my steps. I barely noticed my path, when I discovered I had passed Schuylkill on the upper bridge. I was now in the city, and the night was getting faster. It requires me to make a quick decision.

Suddenly I remembered that I had not paid the customary toll on the bridge; nor did I have the money to pay it. The demands of payment will abruptly stop my progress; and such a small incident will hinder the wonderful destiny that belongs to me. The obstacles that would hinder my progress now prevented me from returning. Careful honesty did not require me to turn around and awaken the vigilance of the toll collectors. I had nothing to pay, and by returning I should have just doubled my debt. "Let it stand," I said, "where it happened. All the honor that is commanded is to pay when I can afford."

I followed the intersection, until I reached Market Street. The night had arrived, and three rows of lights presented a dazzling and new spectacle. My personal concern, for a time, was lost in the chaotic sensation that now engrossed me. I have never visited the city at this hour. When my last visit was paid, I was still a child. The novelty surrounding each object, therefore, is almost absolute. I continued with more careful steps, but still focused on the passing object. I reached the market house, and, entering it, indulged myself in new joys and wonders.

I walked from one of these buildings to the other, until I reached their stop on Front Street. Here my progress was checked, and I sought rest for my tired limbs by sitting in a stall. No wonder I feel some fatigue, because I am used to strenuous activity, because, excluding the minutes spent on breakfast and dinner, I am not, I have traveled fifteen hours and forty-five miles.

Now I began to reflect, earnestly, on my condition. I was a stranger, had no friends and no money. I could not buy food and shelter, and was completely unfamiliar with the begging business. Hunger was the only serious inconvenience I soon experienced. I don't mind spending the night where I sit. I'm not afraid my eyesight will be interrupted by police officers. It is not a crime without a home; but how should I fulfill my present desires and the desires of tomorrow?