In the midnight hour we walked into the Church Street police station
and asked for lodging. The rain was still pouring in torrents.
The sergeant spied the dog under my tattered coat and gruffly told
me to put it out, if I wanted to sleep there. I pleaded for it in
vain. There was no choice. To stay in the street was to perish.
So I left my dog out on the stoop, where it curled up to wait for
me. Poor little friend! It was its last watch. The lodging-room
was jammed with a foul and stewing crowd of tramps. A loud-mouthed
German was holding forth about the war in Europe, and crowding
me on my plank. Cold and hunger had not sufficed to put out the
patriotic spark within me. It was promptly fanned into flame, and
I told him what I thought of him and his crew. Some Irishmen cheered
and fomented trouble, and the doorman came in threatening to lock
us all up. I smothered my disgust at the place as well as I could,
and slept, wearied nearly to death.
In the middle of the night I awoke with a feeling that something
was wrong. Instinctively I felt for the little gold locket I wore
under my shirt, with a part of the precious curl in it that was
my last link with home.
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