He started back. Was that the boy he knew
as himself? Was that Sandy Kilday who had come to America to seek his
fortune? He stared in a sort of fascinated horror at that other boy in
the mirror. Before he had been afraid to be by himself, now he was
afraid of himself.
He seized his cap, and blowing out the lamp, plunged down four flights
of steep narrow steps and out into the street. A number of people were
crowding into a street-car marked "Exposition." Sandy, ever a straw in
the current, joined them. Once more down among his fellow-men, he
began to feel more comfortable. He cheerfully paid his entrance fee
with one of the two silver coins in his pocket.
The first building he entered was the art gallery, and the first
picture that caught his eye held him spellbound. He sat before it all
the evening with fascinated eyes, devouring every detail and oblivious
to the curious interest he was attracting; for the huge canvas
represented the Knights of the Round Table, and he had at last found
friends.
All the way back he thought about the picture; it was not until he
reached his room that the former loneliness returned.
But even then it was not for long. A pair of yellow eyes peered around
the window-sill, and a plaintive "meow" begged for admittance.
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