"When Kitty gets to bed."
"How'll I know?"
"I'll come for you."
"All right--you'll find me here."
Then Sam turned up the deck muttering to himself: "That's one on you,
Sam-u-e-l--one under the chin-whisker. Got to--eh? Well, for the love of
Mike!"
In ten minutes Sam heard a whistle and raised his head. The man with the
medal was leaning over the rail looking down at him.
Sam mounted the steps and picked his way among the passengers sprawled
over the floor and deck. The man advanced to meet him, smiled
contentedly, walked along the corridor, put his hand on the knob of the
door of Number 15, opened it noiselessly, beckoned silently, waited
until Sam had stepped over the threshold and closed the door upon him.
Then the man tiptoed back to the saloon.
Sam looked about him. The curtains of the lower berth were drawn; the
curtains of the upper one were wide open. On a chair was his bag, and on
a hook by the shuttered window the cape and hat of the wife and the
clothes of the sleeping boy.
At the sight of the wee jacket and little half-breeches, tiny socks and
cap, Sam stopped short. He had never before slept in a room with a
child, and a strange feeling, amounting almost to awe, crept over him.
It was as if he had stepped suddenly into a shrine and had been
confronted by the altar. The low-turned lamp and the silence--no sound
came from either of the occupants--only added to the force of the
impression.
Sam slipped off his coat and shoes, hung the first on a peg and laid the
others on the floor; loosened his collar, mounted the chair, drew
himself stealthily into the upper berth; closed the curtains and
stretched himself out. As his head touched the pillow a soft, gentle,
rested voice said:
"I can't tell you how grateful we are, sir--good-night."
"Don't mention it, ma'am," whispered Sam in answer; "mighty nice of you
to let me come," and he dropped off to sleep.
At the breaking of the dawn Sam woke with a start; ran his eye around
the room until he found his bearings; drew his legs together from the
coverlet; let himself down as stealthily as a cat walking over teacups;
picked up his shoes, slipped his arms into his coat, gave a glance at
the closed curtains sheltering the mother and child, and crossed the
room on his way to the door with the tread of a burglar.
Reaching out his hand in the dim light he studied the lock for an
instant, settled in his mind which knob to turn so as to make the least
noise, and swung back the door.
Outside on the mat, sound asleep, so close that he almost stepped on
him, lay the Man with the Medal.