It was now half-past twelve, and walking about had made Oliver hungry. He moved along until he came to a restaurant, and entering, ordered dinner.
While at the table he was astonished at the bustle and confusion around him. It was true he had been to the metropolis many times, but on every succeeding occasion the city seemed to be more busy, more full of life.
Having eaten his meal, and settled the amount of the check at the desk, Oliver sauntered out upon the street once more. He had a day and a half before him, and hardly knew what to do. He walked up Nassau Street to Park Row, and then turning, drifted with the tide of humanity down Broadway. The knowledge that he was carrying so much cash about worried him, but each time he felt for it he found that his money was still safe in the inside pocket of his vest.
At length Oliver reached the Battery, and sat down on one of the benches that line the promenades. His long walk in the afternoon sun had tired him, and his head was beginning to ache.
The sights around him interested him not a little. Directly opposite to him was a poor women with a sick baby, the little thing fairly gasping for breath. To his right sat a shabby workman, or he might have been a tramp, half asleep, and beside him a tall, gaunt, almost starved looking boy, certainly not much older than himself.
Upon another bench three emigrant Germans were holding an animated conversation in their own tongue, though Oliver occasionally heard the names Chicago and Milwaukee mentioned.
The sick baby interested the boy most of all. His heart ached to see the little one in such misery, and when he saw the mother wipe the tears from her eyes, he hastily rose and walked over to her.
“You seem in distress,” he said kindly. “Can I do anything for you?”
She looked up into his honest, open face.