"The only clothes I've got are on me," Ned went on, continuing the process of "stock taking." He had a change of underwear and some clean collars, cuffs and handkerchiefs in his valise, and about ten dollars in bills. In his pocketbook he carried five dollars and there was a little change in his overcoat. "I've got to sail pretty close to the wind," he told himself. "Fifteen dollars isn't going very far in New York. I must get work to do until this thing blows over, or something happens. That's what I'll do. I'll look for a job to-morrow." The hotel at which Ned arrived a few minutes later did not look very inviting. Still, he reflected, he was not in a position to be particular. It was a five-storied building, and on both sides of it, were shops for the sale of various articles. "Can you give me a cheap room?" asked Ned of the clerk behind the desk. "Sell you one, you mean I guess," was the man's reply as he went on with the operation of cleaning his finger nails. "We don't give 'em away." "I'd like to engage a room for the night," Ned went on. "Dollar's the cheapest we've got." "That will do." "Register," the clerk said, swinging the book around in front of Ned, and handing him a pen which he dipped into the dirty ink bottle. Then he went on with his manicuring. "I must sign my name," thought Ned. "No I can't do that! They might trace me!" He felt the rustle of the stock certificate in his pocket as he took the pen. What was he to do? "Is it necessary to register?" he asked. "Course it is," replied the clerk looking at him curiously. "That's the law. Everybody who stops at a hotel has to put their name on the book. What's the matter? You ain't afraid to register, are you? Don't look as though you'd committed a murder or had robbed some one," and the clerk grinned at his joke. "No, of course not," Ned replied, his heart thumping away under his overcoat. Then he resolved to put on the book a fictitious name. He hesitated a moment and inscribed: "Thomas Seldon," in a large hand as unlike as possible from his own usual small writing. "Thomas Seldon, eh?" queried the clerk as he turned the book around once more. "Where you from? That has to go down." Once more Ned hesitated. What should he answer. "What's the matter? Forget where you live?" the clerk asked. "No. It's Perryville, New York," replied Ned, taking a name at random, as he had the one he signed in the book. The clerk told him to write it down, and after this was done the number 113 was placed after his name. "Hope you're not superstitious," the clerk remarked. "Why?" asked Ned. "There's a thirteen in your room number." "I don't mind that." "Some folks do," the clerk continued. "But that's the only dollar room we've got left. Front!"