“You mean eat?” he replied.

“Yes, and sleep.  I can’t go back to New York to-night.”

“The foreman’ll fix that if you ask him, I guess.  He did me.”

“That so?”

“Yes.  I just told him I didn’t have anything.  Gee, I couldn’t go home.  I live way over in Hoboken.”

Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment.

“They’ve got a place upstairs here, I understand.  I don’t know what sort of a thing it is.  Purty tough, I guess.  He gave me a meal ticket this noon.  I know that wasn’t much.”

Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed.

“It ain’t no fun, is it?” he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery reply.

“Not much,” answered Hurstwood.

“I’d tackle him now,” volunteered the youth.  “He may go ’way.”

Hurstwood did so.

“Isn’t there some place I can stay around here to-night?” he inquired.  “If I have to go back to New York, I’m afraid I won’t”

“There’re some cots upstairs,” interrupted the man, “if you want one of them.”

“That’ll do,” he assented.

He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never came, and he decided to pay himself that night.

“I’ll ask him in the morning.”

He ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold and lonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question.  The company was not attempting to run cars after nightfall.  It was so advised by the police.

The room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers.  There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing.  Early as he was, another man was there before him.  The latter was sitting beside the stove warming his hands.

Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire.  He was sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture, but was steeling himself to hold out.  He fancied he could for a while.

“Cold, isn’t it?” said the early guest.

“Rather.”

A long silence.

“Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?” said the man.

“Better than nothing,” replied Hurstwood.

Another silence.

“I believe I’ll turn in,” said the man.

Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing only his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter over him in a sort of bundle.  The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he did not dwell on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of something else.  Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also removing his shoes.

While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial.

“Better’n nothin’,” he observed, looking around.