Mrs. Wiggs tipped an imaginary bottle to her lips, and gave Lucy a
significant wink. Even in the strictest confidence, she could not
bear to speak of the weakness of the late lamented.

"But no matter how bad he done, he always tried to do better. Mr.
Dick sorter puts me in mind of him 'bout that."

"Who is Mr. Dick?"

"He's Mr. Bob's friend. Stays at his rooms sence he was took down."

"Is Mr. Redding sick?" asked Lucy, the color suddenly leaving her
face.

"No, it's Mr. Dick; he's consumpted. I clean up his room ever'
mornin' He coughs all the time, jes' like Mr. Wiggs done. Other day
he had a orful spell while I was there. I wanted to git him some
whisky, but he shuck his head. 'I'm on the water-cart,' sez he.
'Bob's drivin' it.' He ain't no fatter 'n a knittin'-needle, an'
weaker 'n water. You orter see him watch fer Mr. Bob! He sets by the
winder, all propped up with pillars, an' never tecks his eyes offen
that corner. An' when Mr. Bob comes in an' sets down by him an'
tells him what's goin' on, an' sorter fools with him a spell, looks
like he picks up right off. He ain't got no folks nor nothin'--
jes, Mr. Bob. He shorely does set store by him--jes' shows it
ever' way. That's right, too. I hold that it's wrong to keep
ever'thing bottled up inside you. Yer feelin's is like ras'berry
vineger: if you 're skeered to use 'em an' keep on savin' 'em, first
thing you know they 've done 'vaporated!"