"A voice from a half-opened door informed me that if I did not stop the noise I should be pitched down the stairs. Still, I banged away at Tom's door. There was no response, and I grew sick at heart.
"Then, just as I was about to go away, a door leading up to the attic opened, and Tom appeared, clad in street clothing—overcoat and all.
"'What's up?' he inquired, with chattering teeth.
"'Tom!' I exclaimed, reaching his side at a bound, 'I want to talk with you. Take me into your place. I'm in trouble. I want to sleep in your room with you. Take me in.'
"'Come upstairs,' he said, calmly.
"I followed him up to the bare and chilly attic, where he lighted a candle, and offered me a seat—on the floor. I told him my agonized tale of woe, but he did not show the sympathy I had anticipated; in fact, he laughed, softly and long.
"'You can sleep with me, if you insist,' he said. 'I've a Persian rug that will almost cover us both, and I'll share this pillow with you. Then, here's a single portière—not very warm—and two New York Heralds and a Sunday Times that will help out. But, in fact, I'd rather not entertain you to-night. I'd rather you'd go out and walk the street, or sleep in the Park. I couldn't sleep a wink myself with you alongside of me, and neither could you.'
"'But your room,' I gasped; 'what's the matter with your room?'
"'I've been turned out of my room,' he said. 'I'm allowed to sleep here, to-night; and I don't know how it will be to-morrow night—can't tell.'
"'Well, I'll bunk in with you, here.'