“A'right.”
I heard him presently on the lower floor, crying, “M'las ca-andy! Peanuts.”
“I shall be spoken of,” continued Horatius Flaccus, calmly, “by that wild southern river, the Aufidus, and in many other places. I shall be called a pioneer in my own line, princeps Æolium carmen deduxisse.”
The night was closing down. The gas-light flickered on the half-hidden face of the statue, so that its grave dignity seemed changed to a shifty, mocking smile.
I heard no more of Tobin for a month, and probably did not think of him. There were Christmas holidays about, and that week which is called of the Promenade, when one opens Horatius Flaccus only to wonder what might have been the color of Lydia's hair, and to introduce comparisons that are unfair to Lydia.
It was late in January. Some one came and thumped on the cracked panel. It was not Tobin, but a stout woman carrying Tobin's basket, who said in an expressionless voice:
“Oi! Them shoes.”
“What?”
“You give 'im some shoes.”
“Tobin. That's so.”