“By Jove, Eph, you’re right,” the lawyer agreed. “I ... I’d like to....”
There were tears in his eyes when he had shaken Eph’s hand and seen him go; but there were no tears in old Eph. He was riotously happy, madly happy, tenderly happy.... He went out, and down the street, and in the early dusk spread a newspaper on the cold stones of the pavement by the kiosk there, and sat him down, and lifted up his voice in song....
People said afterward that Eph had never sung so tunefully as that last evening. His voice had an unusual purity and sweetness; it was as tender as a woman’s. There was an exaltation about the old man, so that the discerning eye seemed to see a glory hanging over him. He sang and sang....
That was a bitter cold night, and the streets cleared early. Ragan came along about one o’clock and found Eph still singing, with no one near to hear. He bade Eph stop and go home; but Eph protested:
“Please suh, Miste’ Ragan; dis is my night tuh sing, suh.”
Ragan, shivering in his warm garments, said harshly: “This’ll be your night to freeze to death. Get up and go home, before I run you in.”
Eph got up. There was nothing else to do when a policeman commanded. And Ragan watched him cross the street, and called: “Good night.”
Eph looked back and nodded. “Good night, suh,” he echoed. “I’m gwine right along.”
He started up Park street; and Ragan went on his way, trying the shop doors, huddling in the doorways to avoid the wind, blowing on his aching hands.
“By God, I don’t see how the old fool stands it,” he said to himself. “It’s a wonder he’s not stiff....”