the vacant wharf to the darkness from which he came. Then he turned to
Randolph again and said abruptly,--

"Strong enough to carry this bag?"

"Yes," said Randolph. The whiskey--possibly the relief--had given him
new strength. Besides, he might earn his alms.

"Take it up to room 74, Niantic Hotel--top of next street to this, one
block that way--and wait till I come."

"What name shall I say?" asked Randolph.

"Needn't say any. I ordered the room a week ago. Stop; there's the key.
Go in; change your togs; you'll find something in that bag that'll fit
you. Wait for me. Stop--no; you'd better get some grub there first."
He fumbled in his pockets, but fruitlessly. "No matter. You'll find a
buckskin purse, with some scads in it, in the bag. So long." And before
Randolph could thank him, he lurched away again into the semi-darkness
of the wharf.

Overflowing with gratitude at a hospitality so like that of his reckless
brethren of the mines, Randolph picked up the portmanteau and started
for the hotel. He walked warily now, with a new interest in life,
and then, suddenly thinking of his own miraculous escape, he paused,
wondering if he ought not to warn his benefactor of the perils of the
rotten wharf; but he had already disappeared. The bag was not heavy, but
he found that in his exhausted state this new exertion was telling,
and he was glad when he reached the hotel. Equally glad was he in his
dripping clothes to slip by the porter, and with the key in his pocket