The Arizona sentinel., 1888-04-14
THE END OF THE ROAD.
Rest for Weary Feet, and Hands,
 and Heart, and Brain.

He came into the composing room one afternoon, nearly exhausted from long walk of twenty-five miles since morning, and wet and cold with the dismal rain and sleet that was falling outside.
 He did not present an attractive ap- pearance-a face that needed both shaving and washing. Drowned by constant exposure-and pair of great eyes that looked hungrily around the strange room as if in search of some thing he never found; a coat that might once have graced the form of a gentleman of leisure-probably con- tributed by some dude" printer in a philanthropic mood. but which had long since lost the trace of respect ability-an old slouch hat battered by wind and weather, and hard usage, like its owner
 No one could have told. or even guessed with any degree of accuracy, the mans age. He may have been fifty or thirty five years old. No mat ter-no one cared suffi ciently to in- quire or wonder. He walked slowly across the room, stopping at last to watch dreamily the delft fingers of one of the printers who was dis tributing his case for the nights work.
 The worker glanced over his shoulder at another man who sat be- hind him. saying indifferently;
 Here you are, slug seven"
 Slug seven. who had evidently been longing for 'sub. threw himself carelessly off his stool, deposited a dozen lines of type on the stone, and turning to the stranger said:
 "Want to workP Jump on that case.''
 The tramp hesitated-only second -murmuring something about being tired; then wearily took off his shabby coat, exposing to view a shirt which had no original color. and vest equally grimY and delapidated. But when once at work, sending the type hither and thither in the process of distribution, the weary look on his face grew trife less perceptible. and an occasional smile lurked in the corner of his mouth at the jokes that went around the room.
 Outside, the November sleet beat against windows, and the streets were almost deserted. Within the compos- ing room all was fife and fun and laughter; merry talk mixed with the click, click of type from a hundred fingers.
 Thoughtless, light-hearted workers, earning their money deftly and swift ly. and managing to be "dead broke" each week as payday came around.
 ''Where did you work last?'' asked young fellow. who stood beside the tramp.
 '.In Philadelphia, he answered, stopping his work for moment "But that was two weeks ago; haven't had any work since.
 That's hard luck" carelessly.
 We fellows are used to that, with little, bitter laugh.
 Pretty tired, aren't youP" said ''slug seven." walking up and noticing the weary look in his subs" face.
 "Yes; and I have a pain between my shoulders that cuts like knife. Imust work tonight though" turning away to pick up handful of type.
 A tall, heavily-built man stalked in- to the room at this juncture. He glanced sharply at the new man. talk ing in his general outside appear ance in one swift look. from the brown, unshaven face to the shabby shoes that scarcely concealed his feet. A sudden hush fell upon the noisy crowd. The business manager of the concern was not inclined to encour- age levity. He walked over to the foreman's table. whispering some thing in his ear and received the an- swer:
 He's all right; little. rough-look- ing, but a printer is printer; we're three frames short tonight
 The business manager walked out, after which the jokes and general freedom of speech were resumed.
 Six O clock sounded from the differ ent city shop-bei<s, the whistles blew, the old composing-room clock changed out six sharp notes. The office was nearly deserted. The tramp fingered, looking with true compositor' s pride al the heaped-up case out of which he might 'pull good string" if he were not so tired, and that old pain in his shoulders were not quite so sharp, though almost taking his breath at times.