'
"'I'll go.' These are the people I can never refuse. They are on the
hunted side of life and don't have many friends. I slipped on my rubbers
and coat, picked up my umbrella and my bag with my instruments in it;
hung a card in the window so the hall-light would strike it, marked
'Back in an hour'--in case the woman sent for me; locked my door and
started after him.
"It was an awful night. The streets were running rivers, the wind
rattling the shutters and flattening the umbrellas of everybody who
tried to carry one--one of those storms that drives straight at the
front of the house, drenching it from chimney to sidewalk. We waited
under the gas-lamp, boarded a Sixth Avenue car, and got out at a signal
from my companion. During the trip he sat in the far corner of the car,
his hat slouched over his eyes, his coat-collar covering his ears. He
evidently did not want to be recognized.
"If you know the neighborhood about Washington Street you know it's the
last resort of the hunted.
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