“We can ring for a messenger if you want to send word to your folks; ... it’s against the rules to telephone.”

“I’ve notified them,” Fred returned, crisply.  It was curious to discover that he had no doubts concerning Ginger’s delivery of his message.

“Is there a chance for you to get bailed out to-night?” the same man inquired.

Fred hesitated.  “There may be,” he said, finally.

They put him in a temporary cell with three others—­two white men and a Chinese, who had been arrested for smuggling opium.  The floor was of thick boards sloping toward the center, and in a corner was a washbasin.  There were no seats.  One of the white men was pacing up and down with the aimless ferocity of an animal freshly caged.  At Fred’s entrance the younger and quieter of these two looked up and said, eagerly: 

“Got a smoke?”

Fred drew out a box of cigarettes and tossed it to him.  The other white man came forward; even the Chinese was moved to interest.

Fred saw the box passed from one to the other.  There did not seem to be any color line drawn about this transient solace.  Fred took a smoke himself.

“What are you up for?” the younger man inquired.

Fred experienced a shock.  “Oh ... you see ...  I just got caught in a jam.  It will come out all right.”

It sounded ridiculous—­this feeble attempt at pride, and Fred regretted it, once it escaped him.  But his questioner was not put out of countenance.

“Well, if you’ve got a pull, it’s easy; otherwise—­” He finished with a shrug and went on smoking.

Fred looked at him intently.  He was a lad not much over twenty, with thick black hair and very deep-blue eyes and an indefinable quality which made his rather irregular features seem much more delicate than they really were.

“What’s your trouble?” Fred asked, suddenly.

The boy grinned.  “I rolled a guy for twenty dollars in Portsmouth Square...  He was drunk, at that,” he finished, as if in justification.

At this moment the door of the cell was opened.  The three white men started forward expectantly.  But it was the Chinese who was wanted.  A group of his countrymen had come to bail him out.

The man who had been silent suddenly spoke to the policeman as he was closing the door again.

“You might as well lock me up proper for the night,” he flung out, bitterly.  “I guess they’re not coming to get me now.”

The policeman led him away, in the wake of the disappearing Chinese.  The youth turned to Starratt with a chuckle: 

“The old boy’s kinda peeved, ain’t he?  Well, he’ll get over that after a while...  The first time they jugged me I thought—­”

“Then you’ve been up before?”

“Before?...  Say, do I look like a dead one?  This isn’t a bad habit after you get used to it...  So far I’ve only made the county jails.  Some day I suppose I’ll graduate...  But I’m pretty wise—­vagrancy is about all they’ve ever pinned on me.”