“Oh no, I haven’t.”
“Don’t say that, sonny,” he burst out, tenderly. “Ye’ve got to live! Ye must do it—for my sake—now. I suppose it’s because we’re—we’re Britishers together.” He looked round on the circling crowd of Slavs, Mongolians, Greeks, Italians, aliens of all sorts. “We’re different from these Yankees, ain’t we?”
Admitting our Anglo-Saxon superiority, I was about to say, “Well, so long, Lovey,” and shake him off, when he put in, piteously, “I suppose I can come up and lay down on yer floor again to-night?”
“I wish you could, Lovey,” I responded. “But—but the fact is I—I haven’t got that place any more.”
“Fired?”
I nodded.
“Where’ve ye gone?”
“Nowhere.”
“Where did ye sleep last night?”
I described the exact spot in the lumber-yard near Greeley’s Slip. He knew it. He had made use of its hospitality himself on warm summer nights such as we were having.