won't even let me into hell when I die,—well, if you don't call that an insult, I'd like to know what it is. Don't talk to me about that bum!"
"Is that all he said?" involuntarily fell from the lips of the violinist, as if, to his way of thinking, Mr. Trotter's remark was an out-and-out compliment. "Surely you have no desire to go to hell when you die."
"No, I haven't, but I don't want anybody coming in here telling me to my face that there'd be a revolution down there if I tried to get in. I've got as much right there as anybody, I'd have him know. Cough up six or get out. That's all I've got to say to you, my little man."
"It is freezing cold in my room. I—"
"Don't blame me for that. I don't make the weather. And say, I'm busy. Cough up or—clear out."
"You will not let me have it for a few days if I—"
"Say, do you think I'm in business for my health? I haven't that much use—" she snapped her fingers—"for a fiddler anyhow. It's not a man's job. That's what I think of long-haired guys like— Beat it! I'm busy."
With head erect the little violinist turned away. He was half way to the door when she called out to him.
"Hey! Come back here! Now, see here, you little squirt, you needn't go turning up your nose at me and acting like that. I've got the goods on you and a lot more of those rummies up there. I looked 'em over the
