Page:Famous stories from foreign countries.djvu/35



is the pocket book of the hero of this story, Mr. Alfred N—. I ask you to take it and look into it. You see several compartments, and in them,—nothing. We turn the pocket book upside down and shake it. What falls out? Nothing.

Twilight clings to the comers of the room. The clothes closet yawns toward us—empty. The bed dreams in vain of luxurious pillows. The book cases are empty. Poverty grins from every corner. The cold pipe falls from the hands of the occupant of the room. The bitter smile disappears; the eyelids close,—the golden dreams have vanished.

Some one knocked softly. Alfred jumped up. Should he open the door? It was probably a mistake. None of his acquaintances would come to see him now because they knew he had nothing which they could borrow. Cautiously he opened the door, being mindful of his worn trousers, and the pitiful fragment of a coat that hung from his shoulders.

A diminutive man stepped into the room. His neglected appearance fitted exactly the words he said:

“Old clothes—dear Sir! Aron pays—pays fine!