Allan gently replaced the instrument on the floor and slid out of bed. He groped his way to the closet, got out his clothes and slipped into them as quietly as he could. Shirt and coat gave him some trouble, but he managed to get them on, gritting his teeth at the pain the movement cost him. Then, without collar or tie, which he knew were beyond him, even if he had cared to linger for such trifles, he took his shoes in his hand, opened his door softly, and started down the stairs, hoping that he might get away unseen.
But before he was half way down, he heard light steps behind him and a low voice.
“Allan!” it called.
He turned as Mamie came flying down to him, visible only as a dim shape in the darkness.
“You’re not going out!” she protested, her hands upon his shoulders.
“I must,” he said, bending and kissing her. “The strikers have fired the yards and blown up the freight-house. I’ve got to go.”
“But you’re not able!”
“Oh, yes, I am,” he contradicted lightly, but he was grateful for the darkness which hid his face from her anxious eyes.
“And there’ll probably be more trouble.”
“All the more reason I should be there. You wouldn’t have me be a coward, Mamie!”