We all heard a noise in the hall—­a sort of scuffling, with an occasional groan.  Tish rushed over and threw open the door.  On the top step, huddled and shivering, with streams of water running off his hair down over his celluloid collar, pouring out of his sleeves and cascading down the stairs from his trousers legs, was Tufik.  The policeman on the beat was prodding at him with his foot, trying to make him get up.  When he saw us the officer touched his hat.

“Evening, Miss Tish,” he said, grinning.  “This here boy of yours has been committing suicide.  Just fished him out of the lake in the park!”

“Get up!” snapped Charlie Sands.  “You infernal young idiot!  Get up and stop sniveling!”

He stooped and took the poor boy by the collar.  His brutality roused us all out of our stupor.  Tish and I rushed forward and commanded him to stand back; and Aggie, with more presence of mind than we had given her credit for, brought a glass containing a tablespoonful of blackberry cordial into which she had poured ten drops of seasickness remedy.  Tufik was white and groaning, but he revived enough to sit up and stare at us with his sad brown eyes.

“I wish to die!” he said brokenly.  “Why you do not let me die?  My friends go on the canal!  I am alone!  My heart is empty!”

Tish wished to roll him on a barrel, but we had no barrel; so, with Charlie Sands standing by with his watch in his hand, refusing to assist and making unkind remarks, we got him to Tish’s room and laid out on her mackintosh on the bed.  He did not want to live.  We could hardly force him to drink the hot coffee Tish made for him.  He kept muttering things about his loneliness and being only a dirty dago; and then he turned bitter and said hard things about this great America, where he could find no work and must be a burden on his three mothers, and could not bring his dear sister to be company for him.  Aggie quite broke down and had to lie down on the sofa in the parlor and have a cracker and a cup of tea.

When Tish and I had succeeded in making Tufik promise to live, and had given him one of his own silk kimonos to put on until his clothing could be dried—­Charlie Sands having disagreeably refused to lend his overcoat—­and when we had given the officer five dollars not to arrest the boy for attempting suicide, we met in the parlor to talk things over.

Charlie Sands was sitting by the lamp in his overcoat.  He had put our railway and steamer tickets on the table, and was holding his cigarette so that Aggie could inhale the fumes, she having hay fever and her cubebs being on their way to Panama.

“I suppose you know,” he said nastily, “that your train has gone and that you cannot get the boat tomorrow?”

Tish was in an exalted mood—­and she took off her things and flung them on a chair.

“What is Panama,” she demanded, “to saving a life?  Charlie, we must plan something for this boy.  If you will take off your overcoat—­”