“So would I—in the circumstances,” confessed Larcher.
Mr. Bud proposed that they should go down to the saloon and “tackle the soup.” Larcher could offer no reason for remaining where they were. As they rose to go, the young man looked at his fingers, soiled from the coal-dust on the covers.
“There's a bath-room on this floor; we c'n wash our hands there,” said Mr. Bud, and, after closing up his own apartment, led the way, by the light of matches, to a small cubicle at the rear of the passage, wherein were an ancient wood-encased bathtub, two reluctant water-taps, and other products of a primitive age of plumbing. From this place, discarding the aid of light, Mr. Bud and his visitor felt their way down-stairs.
“Yes,” spoke Mr. Bud, as they descended in the darkness, “one 'ud almost imagine it was true about his bein' pursued with bad luck. To think of the young lady turnin' out staunch after all, an' his disappearin' just in time to miss the news! That beats me!”
“And how do you suppose the young lady feels about it?” said Larcher. “It breaks my heart to have nothing to report, when I see her. She's really an angel of a girl.”
They emerged to the street, and Mr. Bud's mind recurred to the stranger he had run against in the hallway. When they had reseated themselves in the saloon, and the soup had been brought, the old man said to the bartender:
“I see there's a new roomer, Mick?”
“Where?” asked Mick.
“In the house here. Somewheres up-stairs.”
“If there is, he's a new one on me,” said Mick, decidedly.