The detective came up with my two bosses—the milkman and Tex, the gambler. The trusty opened the door. “Out you go,” said the detective, “and the next time you get jammed up say something before you get thrown in. Holler before you’re hurt; that’s my motto.” I said good-by to my benefactor, George, and thanked him awkwardly. When I met him years after and had a chance to return his kindness, I learned he was a most distinguished criminal; a man who had stolen fortunes and spent them, who had killed a crooked pal, and served many prison sentences. “Forget it, kid, and don’t let them scare you out of your job. You go right back next week and collect your bills.” Tex and the milkman escorted me to the cigar store. The evening games had not started when we went into the back room, so I told my story again. The milkman sympathized and promised to raise my commission on the bills. Tex was relieved to learn that I had not mentioned his “store” to the police. Collection day came around again, and I made my rounds without incident till I got to Madam Singleton’s, the last place. A colored maid, the only person that escaped arrest the week before, opened the door. When she saw me she screamed at the top of her voice: “Oh, Miss Kate, here’s the pore milk boy.” “Bring him right up here, Jo, this minute.” The maid led me upstairs, then down a hall and to the madam’s room. She was in the midst of dressing for the evening, but when I appeared in the door she stopped, kicked a bunch of clothes to one side, came over and, putting her arm around me, led me into the room. “Well, you poor boy,” she patted my back. “We are ashamed to face you after going off and forgetting you in jail. Julia thought of you about nine o’clock that night, and I sent down word right away about you. They said you were out and gone home. We never expected to see you again. You must have dinner with us. It’s ready now, and Julia wants to apologize to you. Not that it was her fault,” she added quickly. “It was just something that couldn’t be helped. Those men from the country are always—ah—misplacing their money. We are continually having trouble with them.” She was so charming and friendly and natural, so different from the crabby widow at my boarding house, the only woman I had any contact with, that I found myself wondering if George had not been too severe in judging them. She went on with her dressing, and I looked about the room curiously. I had a dim recollection of my mother’s room—a plain bed, a bureau, a big rocking-chair, and a rag carpet. I had looked into the widow’s room at the boarding house, too. That was plainer than my mother’s. It had a cheap, single bed; a packing case covered with a sheet, and a cracked mirror propped against the wall served as a bureau. There was a hard-looking chair at the head of the bed. There was no carpet on the widow’s floor.