The man with the medal now wrenched his shoulder loose and turned half round toward Sam. Sam never looked so jolly nor so trustworthy: the lizards were in full play all over his cheeks. "Freddie's all tired out, comrade. I didn't want to bring him, but Kitty begged so. It was crossing the Common, in that heat--your company must have felt it when you come along. The sun beat down terrible on Freddie--that's what used him up." Sam felt a glow start somewhere near his heels, struggle up through his spinal column and end in his fingers. Being called "comrade" by a man with a medal on his chest was, somehow, better than being mistaken for a millionaire. "Can't you get a state-room?" Sam asked. Of course the man couldn't--he had heard him say so. The drummer was merely sparring for time--trying to adjust himself to a new situation--one rare with him. Meanwhile the key of Number 15 was turning in his pocket as uneasily as a grain of corn on a hot shovel. The man shook his head in a hopeless way. The woman replied in his stead--she, too, had fallen a victim to Sam's smile. "No, sir, that's the worst of it," she said in a choking voice. "If we only had a pillow we could put Freddie's head on it and I could find some place where he might be comfortable. I don't much mind for myself, but it's dreadful about Freddie--" and she bent her head over the child. Sam thought of the upper berth in Number 15 with two pillows and the lower berth with two more. By this time the key of Number 15 had reached a white heat. "Well, I guess I can help out," Sam blurted. "I've got a state-room--got two berths in it. Just suit you, come to think of it. Here"--and he dragged out the key--"Number 15--main deck--you can't miss it. Put the kid there and bunk in yourselves--" and he dropped the key in the woman's lap, his voice quivering, a lump in his throat the size of a hen's egg. "Oh, sir, we couldn't!" cried the woman. "No, comrade," interrupted the man, "we can't do that; we----" Sam heard, but he did not tarry. With one of his nimble springs he lunged through the crowd, his big fat shoulders breasting the mob, wormed himself out into the air; slipped down a ladder to the deck below, interviewed the steward, borrowed a blanket and a pillow and proceeded to hunt up the ironclads. If the worst came to the worst he would string them in a row, spread his blanket on top and roll up for the night. Their height would keep him off the deck, and the roof above them would protect him from the weather should a squall come up. This done, he drew out a domestic from the upper pocket, bit off the end, slid a match along the well-worn seam and blew a ring out to sea. "Couldn't let that kid sit up all night, you know," he muttered to himself. "Not your Uncle Joseph: no sir-ee--" and he wedged his way back to the deck again.