"I live just near here," said Krafft. "If you will honour me."
He led the way down a narrow dark alley, along which they had fairly to grope their way. It debouched, however, into the forgotten centre of the square. All the edges had been built close with brick stores, warehouses, and office buildings. But in the very middle had been left a waste piece of ground, occupied only by a garden and a low one-room abode, with a veranda and a red-tiled roof. Under the moonlight and the black shadows from the modern buildings it slept amid its bright flowers with the ancient air of another world. Krafft turned a key and lighted a lamp. Keith found himself in a small, neat room, with heavy beams, fireplace, and deep embrasured windows. An iron bed, two chairs, a table, a screen, a shelf of books, and a wardrobe were its sole furnishings. In the fireplace had been laid, but not lighted, a fire of sagebrush roots.
Krafft touched a match to the roots, which instantly leaped into eager and aromatic flames. From a shelf he took a new clay pipe which he handed to Keith.
"Tobacco is in that jar," he said.
He himself filled and lighted a big porcelain pipe with wexelwood stem.
"What would you do about it?" asked Keith, continuing the discussion.
"What would you most want, if you were those poor men?" retorted
Krafft, blowing a huge cloud.
Keith laughed.
"Drink, food, clothes, bed," he stated succinctly.
"And work wherewith to get them," supplemented Krafft.