“I will not.”
“Rules of the house.”
“What do I care about your rules!”
“Have to wake the boss, then.”
“Give me the pen.”
He started to write his own name; that left Charity's designation in doubt. He glanced at the other names. “Mr. and Mrs. George Washington” were there, “Mr. and Mrs. John Smith” twice, as well as “William Jones and wife.”
Jim wondered if the waiter knew him. So many waiters did. At length, with a flash of angry impulse, he wrote: “James D—,” paused, finished “Dysart,” hesitated again, then put “Mr. and Mrs.” before it. Skip read, and grinned. He did not know who Jim was, but he knew he was no Dysart.
Skip led the way to the parlor up-stairs, lighted the lights, and hastily disappeared, fearing that he might be asked to fetch something to eat or drink. He was so tired and sleepy that even the prospect of a tip did not interest him so much as the prospect of his cot in the attic, where he could dream that he was in New York again.
Jim and Charity looked at each other. Jim munched his own curses, and Charity laughed and cried together. Jim's arms had an instinct for taking her to his heart, but he felt that he must be more respectful than ever since they were in so respectless a plight. She never seemed purer and sadder to him than then.
She noted how haggard and dismal he looked, and said, “Aren't you going to sit down?”