A rattling, shaking elevator, of an antiquated type, carried Ned and his guide to the fifth floor. The young porter opened the door of a small room and set Ned's grip down inside of it.
"Here's where you bunk," he remarked.
Ned had read of the necessity for tips in New York, and handed the boy a dime. The lad seemed to welcome it.
"T'anks," he said.
"What's that rope for?" asked Ned, as he noticed one in a corner of his room.
"Fire escape. New law. All rooms has to have 'em," the boy replied. "If the shebang goes up you drop the rope out of the window and slide down. Your window's right over the back yard and there's a gate that leads out into a side street."
"Do they have many fires? " asked Ned, feeling a bit nervous.
"Many? Every day ten or a dozen."
"I mean around here?"
"Ain't had none since I worked here, but when this place goes it'll go quick. It's about a thousand years old, I guess."
When the boy had gone Ned looked out of the window. It overlooked the rear yard of the hotel, a place filled with boxes, barrels and all sorts of rubbish. The rope was fastened to an
