At this time, a year before the text was written, Frank wrote home [to Slovakia], to some disbelief there, that he was making $3, $4, or $6 a night, and sometimes even $10. He lost a lot of sleep doing this and would go home only when he couldn't take it anymore, when his legs would tremble under him and his eyelids would start closing. He'd think to himself that if he could hold out only half an hour more, he could earn another half dollar. As the month progressed, it would get easier for him. He wore nice clothes at this time and had some nice clothes sewn for his wife.
In November, Frank rented a house near the casino, sold his old furniture, and bought all new things: couches, tables, two beds, soft chairs, rugs, a complete set of china, and kitchen utensils. It all cost him more than $300. He still had a scab here and there, but didn't do anything about it because they soon healed.
Before Christmas [he calls it <Boze narodzen~e>, not <Vianoce> or even <Krac~un>], he got a cold so bad that he couldn't work for a couple of days, but then he was better and went back to work so that he wouldn't lose his job.
It got to be 1898, Frank's working, and everything's going well. It never occurred to Frank that he could ever earn better money, and he was banking his earnings. On February 3, Frank's "kmoter" (the godfather of one of his children) came to visit from about 12 "English" miles away. He wanted to borrow $1,000 with his farm <gazdovstvo> as surety. He wanted to put an add in the English-language newspaper, using Frank's address. If anyone inquired, Frank would let his kmoter know, the kmoter would hop on a ship, and come over. Frank gives his address as 310 Burnside Street in Portland.
[Here's something pretty nifty. Go to Google maps, type in the address, and under the photo, click on "street view". You'll see what's there now.]