There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing.
Early as he was, another man was there before him.

The latter was sitting beside the stove warming his hands.
Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire.

He was sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture, but was steeling himself to hold out.

He fancied he could for a while.
"Cold, isn't it ?" said the early guest.
"Rather." A long silence.
"Not much of a place to sleep in, is it ?" said the man.
"Better than nothing," replied Hurstwood.
Another silence.
"I believe I'll turn in," said the man.
Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing only his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter over him in a sort of bundle.

The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he did not dwell on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of something else.
Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also removing his shoes.
While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial.
"Better'n nothin'," he observed, looking around.
Hurstwood did not take this to himself.