"What's your trouble, son?" the stranger asked.
He sat silent.
"Out with it, son, something's wrong somewhere and I may be able to help you."
"Who are you?" John asked.
"I'm Charlie Murray—if that means anything to you. And, believe me, son, I know that something beside the licking you got out there is worrying you. That's why I followed you here. Let's have it; come on, tell me what's wrong. It'll make you feel better."
Before he really knew it, John was telling him his story.
"That's the reason I made a fool of myself," he said. "I couldn't help crying like that. I guess I was too far gone. I don't know what to do now. It will break my mother's heart when she sees me in this condition. It would have helped if I could have handed her enough to pay the funeral expenses.
"I don't know why I've told you all this. Making more of a fool of myself, I suppose."
Murray listened to it all, silently. Then he rose and went to the door.
"Oh, Murphy," he called, putting his head out the dressing room door.