Sunny Boy trotted beside Tim, obediently silent. He was so tired that his feet stumbled, but he plodded on, keeping a tight clutch on his friend's hand.
Suddenly Tim stopped short and gave a shout.
"I have it!" he cried, snapping his fingers excitedly. "I'll bet what you're trying to say is the 'McAlpin'! Aren't you staying at the McAlpin Hotel?"
"Why, yes," admitted Sunny Boy, surprised. "I told you so."
Tim was in high good humor at his cleverness in solving the riddle, and he hurried Sunny Boy down the street as fast as he could go. Presently they came to a smaller street and turned the corner. The houses were very close together, and it seemed to Sunny that at least three people were hanging out of every window. Babies toddled all over the sidewalk, and in one place, where a pushcart had broken down, a swarm of little children quarreled over a heap of half-rotten pears.
"Here we are," announced Tim, steering Sunny Boy up the rickety steps of a sagging brick house. "Go careful, 'cause you're not used to the stairs. And don't take hold of the railing—it's weak."
Sunny Boy felt his way up three pairs of dark stairs behind Tim, and when they reached the third floor a door opened to let a flood of light out on them.
"That you, Tim?" some one called. "You're late. I set the stew back to keep it hot. Glory be, and who is it you're bringing home with you?"
Sunny Boy blinked. The room was hot and the glaring light blinded him. He was dizzily aware that a great many people stood around staring at him.
Tim pulled his hand free.