A hook-nosed woman, carrying a smoking lamp, conducted him to a room under the eaves.

It was small and suffocating.

He involuntarily lifted his hands and touched the ceiling.
"It's like a boilin' potato I feel," he said; "and the pot's so little and the lid so tight!" He went to the window, and taking out the nail that held down the sash, pushed it up.

Below him lay the great, bustling city, cabs and cars in constant motion, long lines of blazing lights marking the thoroughfares, the thunder of trains in the big station, and above and below and through it all a dull monotonous roar, like the faraway unceasing cry of a hungry beast.
He sank on his knees by the window, and a restless, nervous look came into his eyes.
"It presses in, too," he thought.

"It's all crowdin' over me.