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“Mike, the waiter, now laid the bill on the table. I didn’t want to know the amount; my hosts wouldn’t want me to see it, of course, and so I didn’t look at it. The Bostonian craned his head, but I forestalled his glance and turned a plate over it before he could read the total.

“Mike now approached.

“‘Ye’d better pay now,’ he said, ‘before any more o’ ye skip. It’s nine dollars and sixty cints.’

“‘They’ll all be back in a minute,’ I said. ‘Wait till they come. I’m only an invited guest.’

“‘I’ll wait nothin’. The boss is out and I’m in charge. H’ist out yer money.’

“The Bostonian had risen from the table now and was looking at me as if I’d just been detected in picking his pocket.

“‘But I’m an invited guest,’ I protested.

“‘Invited guest, are ye?’ continued the Irishman. ‘And ye ordered the grub yersilf! You heard him!’ This to the Bostonian. ‘Didn’t he order the stuff? Let’s see yer wad. No more o’ ye’s goin’ to l’ave this room ’till I gits nine dollars and sixty cints. Here, Macaroni’–and he called the Italian–‘ring up the station-house and till thim to sind somebody ’round. Ye can’t play that game on me!”

“‘My dear fellow,’ I said–I had now to be as courteous as I could–‘I don’t want to play anything on you. You may be right in your views that these people have served me a scurvy trick, but I don’t believe it.’

“‘Well, thin, pull yer wad out, or I’ll call the perlice.’

“‘Don’t do anything of the kind,’ I urged. ‘My name is Peter Griggs and I live quite near here. Lived there for twenty years. You can find out all about me from any of the neighbors; I haven’t enough money with me, but I’ll go to my room and get it.’

“‘No ye don’t; none o’ that guff for me!’ You can’t think how coarse he was. Then he walked deliberately over to the door and stood with his back against it.

“The Bostonian now joined in.

“‘It looks as if you had been buncoed, my friend,’ he said. ‘It’s an old dodge, this, of getting somebody to pay for your dinner, especially on holidays, and yet I can’t see how anybody would pick you out as a greenhorn. I’d divide the bill with you, but really, as you know, I haven’t the money.’ I saw from his tone that he was thinking better of me.

“‘No, I’ll pay it myself. You, certainly, were not to blame. Will you go to my room with me, Mike?’ I called him Mike because it seemed the best way to conciliate the man.

“‘How far is it?’ he asked, softening a little.

“‘Two blocks.’

“‘And ye’ll pay if I go?’

“‘Of course I will pay. Do I look like a man who would cheat you?’

“‘All right, come on.’

“I bade the Bostonian good-by, and we started.

“Mike didn’t speak a word on the way, nor did I. I felt like a suspected thief that a policeman was taking to the station-house; I’ve passed them many times in the street, and I’ve often wondered what was passing in the thief’s mind. I knew now. I knew, too, what the Bostonian thought of me, and the Italian, and Mike.

“Then a shiver went through me, and the next moment I broke out into a cold sweat. I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t any money in my room. I had given every cent, except two dollars of the amount I had brought uptown with me, to my washerwoman the night before. The bill was not due, but Mrs. Jones wanted it for Thanksgiving and so I let her have it. And yet, gentlemen–would you believe it!–I walked on, trying to think if there mightn’t be some bills in the vest I’d worn the day before, or in the top drawer of my desk or in a china cup on the mantel. Really, it was an awful, awful position! I couldn’t run! I couldn’t explain. I just had to keep on.