“It is dark,” replied the stranger, and passed out to the street. Larcher, at the words of the other two, had stepped back into a corner to make way. Mr. Bud turned to look at the stranger; and the stranger, just outside the doorway, turned to look at Mr. Bud. Then both went their different directions, Mr. Bud's direction being up the stairs.
“Must be a new lodger,” said Mr. Bud. “He was comin' from these stairs when I run agin 'im. I never seen 'im before.”
“You can't truly say you saw him even then,” replied Larcher, guiding himself by the stair wall.
“Oh, he turned around outside, an' I got the street-light on him. A good-lookin' young chap, to be roomin' on these premises.”
“I didn't see his face,” replied Larcher, stumbling.
“Look out fur yur feet. Here we are at the top.”
Mr. Bud groped to his door, and fumblingly unlocked it. Once inside his room, he struck a match, and lighted one of the two gas-burners.
“Everything same as ever,” said Mr. Bud, looking around from the centre of the room. “Books, table, chairs, stove, bed made up same's I left it—”
“Hello, what's this?” exclaimed Larcher, having backed against a hollow metallic object on the floor and knocked his head against a ropey, rubbery something in the air.
“That's a gas-heater—Mr. Davenport made me a present of it. It's convenienter than the old stove. He wanted to pay me fur the gas it burned when he was here sketchin', but I wouldn't stand fur that.”