"It'll be all right next Tuesday," said Stephen, glad of the reprieve. "There's two or three parties that owe me more than the amount of your bill, but they don't pay up."
This was an utter fabrication, as there was no one in the city or elsewhere whom Stephen could rightfully claim as a debtor, but then a regard for truth was not one of his strong points.
Stephen went up stairs to his room, and lay down on the bed. He soon fell asleep, and was still sleeping, when he was aroused by a loud pounding at his door.
"Who's there?" he cried out, only half awake.
"Come and see," was the reply, in an impatient voice.
Stephen tumbled out of bed and opened the door.
"Luke Denton!" he said. "Why, what on earth's the matter with you?"
Luke Denton it was, but by no means in as good trim as when we first made his acquaintance in the railroad car. There were patches of mud on his coat and pantaloons; there was a long scratch on one of his hands, and a bruise on his forehead, while his nose appeared to have been bleeding. For a man who was generally very careful of his appearance it was certainly rather a strange plight to be in.
"Have you been in a fight?" Stephen asked, not unnaturally.
"No, but I'd like to be in just one," growled Denton.