So I carried him back to the Swede’s house with me.  I did not take him into the barroom, though he brazenly hinted he would like to stop in there; but I feared the gibes of the boisterous gang.  This bum of mine was such grotesque horror that the drunken wits of the house would not, I knew, fail to seize the chance to ridicule me upon my choice of a chum.  Besides it was clothes not whisky I intended giving him.

I took him upstairs by the side entrance, the entrance to the lodging-house section of the Knitting Swede’s establishment.  The house was a veritable rookery above the first floor.  I lodged on the third floor, in a room overlooking the street, a shabby, dirty little cubicle, but one of the choice rooms at the Swede’s disposal—­for was I not spending money in his house?

My companion’s complaining whine filled the halls as we ascended the stairs.  He was damning the times and the hard hearts of men.  As we walked along the hall towards my room, the door of the room next to mine opened and the big man, who signed himself Newman, looked out at us.  I had not known before that he occupied this room, he was so silent and secretive in his comings and goings.

I hailed Newman heartily, but he gave me no response, not even a direct glance.  He was regarding the derelict; aye, and there was something in his face as he looked at the man that sent a thrill through me.  There was recognition in his look, and something else.  It made me shiver.  As for this fellow with me—­he stopped short at first sight of Newman.  He said, “Oh, my God!” and then he seemed to choke.  He stumbled against the banisters, and clung to them for support while his knees sagged under him.  He’d have run, undoubtedly, if he had had the strength.

“Hello, Beasley,” said Newman, in a very quiet voice.  He came out of his room, and approached us.  Then this man of mine threw a fit indeed.  I never saw such fright in a man’s face.  He opened his mouth as If to scream, but nothing came out except a gurgle; and he lifted his arm as if to ward off an expected blow.

But Newman made no move to strike him.  He looked down at him, studying him, with his stern mouth cracked into a little smile (but, God’s truth, there was no mirth in it) and after a moment he said, “Surprised?  Eh?  But no more surprised than I.”

The poor wreck got some sound out of his mouth that sounded like “How—­how—­” several times repeated.

“And I wanted to meet you more than I can tell,” went on Newman.  “I want to talk to you—­about——­”

The other got his tongue to working in a half-coherent fashion, though the disjointed words he forced out of his mouth were just husky whispers.  “Oh, my God—­you!  Not me—­oh, my God, not me!—­him—­he made me—­it was——­”

No more sense than that to his agonized mumbling.  And he got no more than that out of him when he choked, and an ugly splotch of crimson appeared upon his pale lips.  His knees gave way altogether, and he crouched there on the floor, gibbering silently at the big man, and plainly terrified clean out of his wits.