"I come from his newspaper office. I am what these writing gents call a printer's devil, ha, ha, ha!"—and the stranger bubbled over with enjoyment of his own joke.
"You're telling an awful fib," said Meg, red to the roots of her hair. "You are a bailiff. I've seen bailiffs," and she nodded, "and I know their dodges. You want to get into Mr. Standish's room to take his things—that's what you want to do."
"Eh, now, you are clever—as clever as clever can be—the prettiest, cleverest little girl!" rejoined the visitor admiringly.
"Do you think," said Meg, evidently taking no notice of the compliment, "that a man ought to be punished who is always very kind and good, and who works—works so hard—I could not tell you how hard; who eats very little, and who scarcely drinks ever at all—that is, very seldom." Meg dashed away a tear, and went on with energy, advancing with restless steps. "If this good man has friends who are bad, dishonest, lazy drunkards, who take all his money and don't give it back, don't you think it is they who ought to be punished, not the good man?"
"Well, missy, there's a deal in what you say—a deal," said the stranger ponderingly; then, as Meg approached, lost in her pleading, he made a sudden flop forward, and almost clutched her skirt, gasping, "That's a pretty apron, missy—a nice little apron."
But Meg had whisked the apron out of his grasp; and, dancing back, shook the hair out of her eyes. "You wickedest man! trying to get the key out of my pocket! But I'll not let you have it. I'll throw it out of that window into the gutter that runs down there sooner than let you have it." Meg as she spoke opened the window in the lobby, and kept near it.
"Then here I'll sit!" said the bailiff, depositing his burly form on the stair.
"How long will you sit there?" asked Meg.
"That's none of your business. I'll sit till he comes up. I believe he's a scamp. Those hauthors and hartists are. I know lots of 'em. I warrant he's in the tavern spending his money."