“Kin I come out now, Mister?”
With a gasp of relief, Routledge turned to the door; but, on the way, his eyes fell upon the two worn, fallen-in shoes, set so evenly before the fire.
“Bless you, lad—just a minute,” he said.
He gathered up all the change his pockets had held, big and little pieces of silver, and dropped them softly into the shoes, now stiffly dried,—then opened the door. The small, draggled chap emerged briskly, took in his host from head to foot with a quick, approving look, then glanced out of the window to locate himself. It was all coming back to him apparently.
“I was sleepin’ in yer street-stairs,” he explained, as if to get it straight in his own mind. “Then I didn’t know nothink till I ’eerd woices.”
“What’s your name, little soul?”
“Johnny Brodie.”
“Did the voices bother you, Johnny?” Routledge asked.
“Naw. I was too warm. Nothink like woices never bothers when you’re warm. Is them your stairs? Nobody never come up them stairs late afore.”
“Have you slept there often, Johnny?”