“I understand you,” said the youth.  “I understand you perfectly.”

“Thanks,” replied Ned.  “But it won’t hurt to stand for a minute.  There ain’t much room to stand though, is there?”

His head nearly touched the ceiling in the highest part; on either side it sloped sharply, the slope only broken by the window gables, the stair casement being carried into the very centre of the room to get height for the door.  The plaster on the ceiling had come off in patches, as if cannon-balled by unwary heads, showing the lath, and was also splashed by the smoke-wreaths of carelessly held candles; the papering was half torn from the shaky plastering of the wall; the flooring was time-eaten.  A general impression of uncleanness was everywhere.  On a ricketty little table behind the candle was a tin basin and a cracked earthenware pitcher.  Excepting a limited supply of bedroom ware, which was very strongly in evidence, there was no other furniture.  Looking round, Ned saw that on the bed opposite the door, hidden in the shadows, a man lay groaning and moaning.  Through the windows could be seen the glorious moonlight.

“No.  A man wants to be careful here,” said the waiter, throwing the blanket over the sheets and straightening it in a whisk.  “There,” he went on, “will that suit you?”

“Anything’ll suit me,” said Ned, pulling off his coat and hanging it over the head of the postless bed.  “I’m much obliged.”

“That’s all right,” replied Jack, cheerfully.  “I’ll be up to bed soon,” he informed the others and ran down stairs again.

“Will you have a cigarette?” asked the English lad, holding out a box.

“Thanks, but I don’t smoke,” answered Ned, who had pulled off his boots and was wrestling with his shirt.  Finally it came over his head.  He lay down in his underclothing, having first gingerly turned back the blanket to the foot.

“I don’t desire to be personal,” said the broken-down swell.  “You’ll excuse me, but I must say you’re a finely built man.  You understand me?  No offence!”

“He is big,” chipped in the youth.

“You don’t offend a man much by telling him he’s well built,” retorted Ned, with an attempt at mirth.

“Certainly.  You understand me.  It’s not the size, my boy”—­to the youth.  “Size is nothing.  It’s the proportion, the capacity for putting out strength.  I’ve been an athlete myself and I’m no chicken yet.  But our friend here ought to be a Hercules.  Will you take a drink?  You’ll excuse the glass.”  He offered Ned a flask half full of whisky.

“Thanks just the same but I never drink,” answered Ned, stretching himself carelessly.  The lad refused also.

“You’re wise, both of you,” commented the other, swallowing down a couple of mouthfuls of the undiluted liquor.  “If I’d never touched it I should have been a wealthy man to-day.  But I shall be a wealthy man yet.  You understand me?”