Leaving the child sleeping on the cushions, and telling the hackman to wait, Hanson went into the office and inquired if he could engage a large bedroom for himself, with a small one communicating with it for his little ward, a child between five and six years of age.
He could, on the third floor front, was the answer he received.
Having registered his name—William Hanson, of New York, and ward—he returned to the carriage, attended by two porters, one of whom took his valise and hatbox, and the other the sleeping child.
Hanson paid and discharged the hack, and then followed the porters into the house—first into the reception room, and then by the elevator to the third story, where he was shown into his small suit of two rooms.
One porter set the luggage down on the floor, and the other laid the sleeping child down on the bed.
Hanson “tipped” them both, and dismissed them.
Then he turned up the gas, and went to look at his poor little charge. A change had come over her. Her face was flushed, her skin was hot and dry, her lips parched, her pulse quick, and her breathing short.
“Poor little devil, I am afraid I have done for her!” said Hanson to himself, in some alarm, as he hastily and awkwardly unfastened the child’s clothes and took off her upper garments, her hat, frock, shoes and stockings.
Then he lifted her in his arms, bore her into the next room and laid her in the cool, fresh bed.
“I wonder if they have put any ice water in the room?” he said, as he went in search of some.