Therefore, as soon as the old man had discharged his burdens, he went to the door of the shop and opened it. Upon the outer threshold was a small, wizened man with a shrewd countenance and a short, bristling moustache. “Has he come back?” asked the man with an eager whisper. “Yes, he has returned,” said the old man; “but he now sleeps.” “Let me see him,” said the other in a voice of anguish. “I will not disturb his sleep, and I will not try to cross the threshold of your little room.” “You may follow,” said the old man, leading the way through the shop to the threshold of the little room, “but I would entreat you not to proceed beyond this.” “Yes, I will bear it in mind,” said the other in a voice of curious excitement. When the man from the street came to stand upon the threshold of the little room, and to peer within at him who lay there asleep, the cry of joy that he could not repress was mingled with an intense consternation. “Why, where has he been?” he whispered in tones of horror. “See--see, he is all in rags! His feet are bruised and cut and quite bare. And his hair hangs down upon his shoulders like a mane. And his ragged shirt exposes his chest. And his fingers are all covered with dried blood. Tell me, why has he returned like this?” “He is about to communicate the story of his wanderings,” said the old man, pointing to the materials for writing that were spread upon the table of the little room. “He is about to make them into a treatise; when the clocks tell the hour of midnight he will commence author. Therefore does it not behove us to be patient? When his task is accomplished, I doubt not that we shall be privileged to learn all that has befallen him.” “Ah, yes, I remember,” said the man from the street. “I always suspected that one day he might set up on his own account as an author. He has a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge. He looks in a dreadful state to-night, and I shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t write the better for it. He’s evidently been out and seen a bit of life; and you’ve got to see a bit of life to be an author. At least, Murtle says so; and Murtle ought to know.” “Yes, yes,” said the old man softly. “We shall doubtless be informed of all that has befallen him when he comes to take the pen in his right hand.” The man from the street bade good-night to the old man, and begged to be allowed to return the next evening to the threshold of the little room, that he might have speech with him who slept. XLVI