"Very well, Lovey, if he is a good man; I don't want you to do anything wrong."
"He's good to me, daddy."
"I'm glad of that; you need a friend, and you may need one more." He kissed his little boy as he went out—an unwonted action on the father's part—and waited until he was sure that the child had left the building, then rose, with a desperate look upon his face, and stepped out on the landing. The house was very full now; people had been coming for two days past with great bales of foul clothing, offensive with odors of the steerage, and had packed into the already dirty rooms. It was an unusually warm night for spring, and the house was unbearably close. The tenants had resorted to the roof, and were sitting under the stars, trying in vain to find fresh air, and screaming and scolding at one another in a strange, harsh language.
Stephen Trimble was about to descend the staircase, when two men of unpleasant aspect stopped him.
"You are the machinist who lives on the top floor?"
"Yes."
"Have you time for a little job?"
"Plenty of time. Thank God!" he added, mentally, "who has sent me help in time."
"Then come down-stairs with us: we are your neighbors, and are just under you.
"What do you want me to do?"