“Sure.”
“Send a double portion of each to this table,” and he pulled out a chair. “Here's a man who has missed his dinner. Is that enough?” and he laid down a dollar bill—one Kling had given him.
“Forty cents change, boss.”
“Keep it, and see he gets all he wants. And now here,” he said to the tramp, “is another dollar to keep you going,” and with a shift of his stick to his left arm Felix turned on his heel, swung back the door, and was lost in the throng.
Kitty was up and waiting for him when he lifted the hinged wooden flap which provided an entrance for the privileged and, guided by the glow of the kerosene lamp, turned the knob of her kitchen door. She was close to the light, reading, the coffee-pot singing away on the stove, the aroma of its contents filling the room.
“I hope I have not kept you up, Mrs. Cleary. You had my message by Mike, did you not?” he asked in an apologetic tone.
“Yes, I got the message, and I got the trunks; they're up-stairs, and if you had given Mike the keys I'd have 'em unpacked by this time and all ready for you. As to my bein' up—I'm always up, and I got to be. John and Mike is over to Weehawken, and Bobby's been to the circus and just gone to bed, and I've been readin' the mornin' paper—about the only time I get to read it. Will ye sit down and wait till John comes in? Hold on 'til I get ye a cup of hot coffee and—”
“No, Mrs. Cleary. I will go to bed, if you do not mind.”
“Oh, but the coffee will put new life into ye, and—”
“Thanks, but it would be more likely to put it OUT of me if it kept me awake. Can I reach my room this way or must I go outside?”