After he shut the door and settled down to his paradise fish on that first Tuesday in May, Hedger forgot all about his new neighbour.  When the light failed, he took Caesar out for a walk.  On the way home he did his marketing on West Houston Street, with a one-eyed Italian woman who always cheated him.  After he had cooked his beans and scallopini, and drunk half a bottle of Chianti, he put his dishes in the sink and went up on the roof to smoke.  He was the only person in the house who ever went to the roof, and he had a secret understanding with the janitress about it.  He was to have “the privilege of the roof,” as she said, if he opened the heavy trapdoor on sunny days to air out the upper hall, and was watchful to close it when rain threatened.  Mrs. Foley was fat and dirty and hated to climb stairs,—­besides, the roof was reached by a perpendicular iron ladder, definitely inaccessible to a woman of her bulk, and the iron door at the top of it was too heavy for any but Hedger’s strong arm to lift.  Hedger was not above medium height, but he practised with weights and dumb-bells, and in the shoulders he was as strong as a gorilla.

So Hedger had the roof to himself.  He and Caesar often slept up there on hot nights, rolled in blankets he had brought home from Arizona.  He mounted with Caesar under his left arm.  The dog had never learned to climb a perpendicular ladder, and never did he feel so much his master’s greatness and his own dependence upon him, as when he crept under his arm for this perilous ascent.  Up there was even gravel to scratch in, and a dog could do whatever he liked, so long as he did not bark.  It was a kind of Heaven, which no one was strong enough to reach but his great, paint-smelling master.

On this blue May night there was a slender, girlish looking young moon in the west, playing with a whole company of silver stars.  Now and then one of them darted away from the group and shot off into the gauzy blue with a soft little trail of light, like laughter.  Hedger and his dog were delighted when a star did this.  They were quite lost in watching the glittering game, when they were suddenly diverted by a sound,—­not from the stars, though it was music.  It was not the Prologue to Pagliacci, which rose ever and anon on hot evenings from an Italian tenement on Thompson Street, with the gasps of the corpulent baritone who got behind it; nor was it the hurdy-gurdy man, who often played at the corner in the balmy twilight.  No, this was a woman’s voice, singing the tempestuous, over-lapping phrases of Signor Puccini, then comparatively new in the world, but already so popular that even Hedger recognized his unmistakable gusts of breath.  He looked about over the roofs; all was blue and still, with the well-built chimneys that were never used now standing up dark and mournful.  He moved softly toward the yellow quadrangle where the gas from the hall shone up through the half-lifted trapdoor.  Oh yes!  It came