“He the one that people say is an Italian, and—and—nobody knows what he is up to?”
“That’s the one, aunty.”
The minister and Tony, hand in hand, passed out of sight.
“This is the kind of day when Mr. Walton’s mother will be watching the weather, looking up at the vane. People say that she has a great deal to say about the sea, and takes a great interest in sailors.”
“What for?”
“Because they say she has a son somewhere at sea.”
“And don’t any one know where he is really?”
“No; and they have hinted and suspected and guessed and done every thing, except ask old Miss Walton right out, but they can’t find out a thing. She’s close as a clam in this matter.”
By and by there appeared in the lane a drunken man. As he staggered along he was exposed to all the pitiless pelting of the wild north east rain, and moved away like a dark, forlorn shadow.
“Poor fellow!” the sympathizing Charlie exclaimed. “Who’s that, I wonder?”