“I didn't like to take you up these stairs at the back of that saloon, little girl, but you would come. Now don't blame me——”
She pressed his arm tenderly.
“Of course I won't blame you. I'm proud and happy to share your life and help you. I'm surprised to see everything so quiet down here. I thought all the East Side was packed with crowded tenements.”
“No,” he answered, in a matter-of-fact way. “About the only excitement we have in this quarter is an occasional gas explosion in the plant over there, and the noise of the second-hand material men unloading iron. The tenements haven't been built here yet.”
He led her quickly past the back door of the saloon and up two narrow flights of stairs to the top of the building, drew from his pocket the key to a heavy padlock and slipped the crooked bolt from the double staples. He unlocked the door with a second key and pushed his way in.
“All righto,” he cried.
The straight, narrow hall inside was dark. He fumbled in his pocket and lit the gas.
“The workshop first, or my sleeping den?”
“The workshop first!” she whispered excitedly.
She had made the reality of this shop the supreme test of Jim's word and character. She was in a fever of expectant uncertainty as to its equipment and practical use.