He dropped back again, a scowl upon his face. "I've got no money—not a damn cent. I did half a day's work on the docks and made enough to quiet me last night." He raised himself. "I can work again. Give me my clothes!"
"They're gone," said Susan. "They were completely used up."
This brought back apparently anything but dim memory of what his plight had been. "How'd I happen to get so clean?"
"Clara and I washed you off a little. You had fallen down."
He lay silent a few minutes, then said in a hesitating, ashamed tone, "My troubles have made me a boor. I beg your pardon. You've been tremendously kind to me."
"Oh, it wasn't much. Don't you feel sleepy?"
"Not a bit." He dragged himself from the bed. "But you do.
I must go."
She laughed in the friendliest way. "You can't. You haven't any clothes."
He passed his hand over his face and coughed violently, she holding his head and supporting his emaciated shoulders. After several minutes of coughing and gagging, gasping and groaning and spitting, he was relieved by the spasm and lay down again. When he got his breath, he said—with rest between words—"I'd ask you to send for the ambulance, but if the doctors catch me, they'll lock me away. I've got consumption. Oh, I'll soon be out of it."
Susan sat silent. She did not dare look at him lest he should see the pity and horror in her eyes.