The night wind sighs through a hole in a window pane, and lulled by this music, supplemented by the ringing of engine bells, and an occasional shriek from a switching locomotive, Wycherley falls asleep.
For an hour or two only his stentorian breathing can be heard in the tenement room.
Then the man on the cot suddenly sits up. His room is no longer in darkness.
“Jove! that was a beastly dream I had. What a pleasure to awaken and find it was only a dream. Can it be morning? What the devil is all that racket outside, people shouting? Bless me! I believe it’s the engines pumping. There must be a fire in the neighborhood. I’m sorry for the poor wretches; never took any enjoyment seeing a house burn. Tchew! bless my soul, the room’s half full of smoke. Think I’ll get up and investigate. Too bad to have a gentleman’s slumbers disturbed in this way, but I’m interested now, because, you know, it might be the Hotel des Vagabonde that is ablaze.”
While he thus communes with himself he gropes around for the lost shoe, and draws it on. Then he goes to the door. As he opens it a volume of smoke pours in. He instantly closes the door again.
“I declare, it is this house, after all. Another experience, my boy. My palatial mansion is doomed, I fear. Ho! for the salvage corps. Is my account book, the repository of millions, safe? Then let the fire demon do his worst.”
He even stops to button his collar; then seizing the lean grip, he waves his hand around him in a majestic way.
“The best of friends must part. Many happy hours have I spent here. Alas! that it should end thus. Farewell, farewell, and if forever, then forever fare thee well.”
He opens the door and steps into the hall.
“Great Scott!” he exclaims.