He found the window so grimed that he could not make anything through it, although the light of a street electric lamp shone across several of the yards, including that of the empty house into which he had made his way.
He rubbed one of the panes with the cuff of his coat, until he was able to see through it in a fashion.
The view he obtained—such as it was, through the foggy darkness, with the pale illumination of the high arc light—comprised that of four or five small back yards, each divided from the other by a fairly high board fence. At the back was a higher fence, extending the whole length of the street, so far as he could discern. On the other side of this rear fence could be made out the black stems and branches of some jagged old elms, whose vitality had been destroyed by the sulphurous fumes from the railroad and adjacent factories long ago.
“Hello!” he exclaimed in a low, threatening tone, as he took a small blackjack from his coat pocket. “Who’s that? What are you snooping about here for? Want to bring the cops down on us?”
To his astonishment, the response of the person he knew was in the room came in the shape of a chuckle of decided amusement. This was followed by the well-known tones of Patsy Garvan, in a whisper:
“It’s all right, Chick. This is Patsy!”
“It is?” exclaimed Chick, angry, but careful not to speak aloud. “And what the blazes are you doing here? I told you to take a walk.”
“I know you did, and I’ve taken it. You didn’t say how far I was to walk, and I don’t care for that kind of exercise, anyway. Why, Chick,” he added, in more serious accents, “I couldn’t stay out there while you were nosin’ about in here, liable to get a crack on your bean at any moment. I just couldn’t. I s’pose you’re mad, but I had to do it.”
“Come here!”
Patsy shuffled over to the other side of the room, where Chick’s voice sounded. He did not know what he was going to get, but he expected it would be a harsh rebuke. Instead, Chick felt for his hand and gave it a hearty squeeze, as he whispered: