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 carried. "I've gotta go now. I've got to see about putting up tents for all of 'em who've been thrown out of their houses. It's a hell of a night to live in a tent." Rising, he took up his black felt hat. "What are you going to do?"

Philip wakened suddenly out of a haze of thought. "Me! I want to stay here to-night."

"Here in this room?"

"Yes."

"All right. . . Turn in there." He pointed to the rickety iron bed. "I'll be out most of the night, gettin' coal and blankets. See you later."

When he had gone, Philip felt suddenly ill again, and hopelessly weary. He lay down on the bed wrapped in Jim Baxter's overcoat, and in a moment fell asleep.

At two, when Krylenko finally returned, there was a little drift of snow by the broken window. Going over to the bed, he stood for a time looking down at Philip, and then, with a great gentleness, he lifted him, and, drawing out the blanket, laid it over him, carefully tucking in the edge to keep out the cold. When he had finished, he lay down, keeping well over to the edge in order not to disturb Philip. It was all done with the tenderness of a strong man fostering the weak, of a great, clumsy father protecting a little boy. 

In the morning Philip awakened to find Krylenko already gone. It was still snowing as he went out into the empty street and made his way toward the shed where there was always hot coffee for the strikers and their families. He stood there among them,