ish storm
that's got in my throat and lungs. I can't speak--it's so warm here.
It will be better in a second. No, not near the fire;
thanks--chilblains." He looked down at his poor feet.

The voice which the storm had beaten and thrashed to painful hoarseness
was entirely out of keeping with the man's appearance, and in
intonation, accent, and language was a shock to the hearer.

"Don't stand back like that--come into the room." Bulstrode wheeled a
chair briskly about. "There; sit down and drink this; it's a mild
blend."

"I'm very wet," said the man. "I'll drip on the rug."

"Hang the rug!"

The tramp drained the glass given him at one swallow merely; it
appeared to clear his throat and release his speech. He gathered his
rags together.

"I beg pardon for forcing myself on you like this, but I fancy I
needn't tell you I'm desperate--desperate!" He held out his hand; it
shook like a pale ghost's. "I look it, I'm sure. I haven't eaten a
meal or slept in a bed for a fortnight. I've begged work and charity.
All day I've been shovelling snow, but I'm too weak to work now."

He was being led to a chair. He sank in it. "Before they sent me to
the Island I decided to try a ruse. I went into a saloon and opened a
directory, and I said, 'The first name I put my finger upon I'll take
as good luck, and I'll go and see the person, man or woman. I opened
to James Thatcher Bulstrode, 9 Washington Square." He half smiled; the
pale, trembling hand was waving like a pitiful flag, a signal of
distress to catch the sight of some bark that might lend aid. "So I
came here. When there seemed actually to be some chance of my getting
in, why, my courage failed me. I don't expect you to believe my story
or to believe anything, except that I am desperate--desperate. It's
below zero to-night out there--infernally cold." He took the pin out
of the collar turned up around his neck and let his coat fall back.
Under it Bulstrode saw he wore a thin flannel shirt. The tramp
repeated to himself, as it were, "It's a bad storm."

He looked up in a dazed fashion at his host as if for acceptance of his
remark. In the easy chair, half swathed in rags, pitiful in thinness,
dripping from shoes and clothes water that the storm had drenched into
him, he was a sorry object in the atmosphere of the well-ordered
conventional room. The heat and whiskey, the famine and exposure, cast
a film across his eyes and brain. He indistinctly