"Hallo, Harvey," cried a voice, breaking in upon his prayer. "I didn't expect to be so long. We've waited a long time, but here it is, my lad, and now let's begin. Shall I pitch in first? I ain't much of a reader."
He held aloft in his hand a copy of a smudgy, dog-eared book, smirched and torn by constant handling.
"We've been waiting our turn on this for three weeks, now. Sam Jordan, he promised to get it for me though, and so he did."
"What's the name?" inquired the pinched-faced lad in the hammock.
"It's R-a-s-s-e-l-a-s," was the response. "I dunno how to pronounce it, but they say as how it's good reading. Say the word, and I'll fire away."
He flung himself down on the floor and opened the pages. It was storming hard outside, and the rain beat against the roof and poured from the gutters down on the stone courtyard. There was just enough light to see the print, if one was not afraid of ruining one's eyes, and Abbott began:—
"'Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy and pursue'——" He had read as far as the first half-page, when suddenly the sick man put out his hand and touched him on the shoulder.
"Listen," he said hoarsely, "what's that going on below?"
Some one on the floor beneath had given a loud staccato whoop. It was followed by another, and then by an increasing murmur of voices. The sailor had risen to his knees and dropped the book.
"Some skylarking or tomfoolery," he said; "or perhaps it's the Rough Alleys," he added.