“There, Abby, we’re here!” announced Hezekiah with an exultation that was a little forced. “Gorry! There must be somethin’ goin’ on ter-day,” he added, as he followed the long line of people down the narrow passage between the cars.
There was no reply. Abigail’s cheeks were pink and her bonnet-strings untied. Her eyes, wide opened and frightened, were fixed on the swaying, bobbing crowds ahead. In the great waiting-room she caught her husband’s arm.
“Hezekiah, we can’t, we mustn’t ter-day,” she whispered. “There’s such a crowd. Let’s go home an’ come when it’s quieter.”
“But, Abby, we--here, let’s set down,” Hezekiah finished helplessly.
Near one of the outer doors Mr. Livingstone--better known to his friends and the police as “Slick Bill”--smiled behind his hand. Not once since he had left them had Mr. and Mrs. Hezekiah Warden been out of his sight.
“What’s up, Bill? Need assistance?” demanded a voice at his elbow.
“Jim, by all that’s lucky!” cried Livingstone, turning to greet a dapper little man in gray. “Sure I need you! It’s a peach, though I doubt if we get much but fun, but there’ll be enough of that to make up. Oh, he’s got money--’heaps of it,’ he says,” laughed Livingstone, “and I saw a roll of bills myself. But I advise you not to count too much on that, though it’ll be easy enough to get what there is, all right. As for the fun, Jim, look over by that post near the parcel window.”
“Great Scott! Where’d you pick ’em?” chuckled the younger man.
“Never mind,” returned the other with a shrug. “Meet me at Clyde’s in half an hour. We’ll be there, never fear.”
Over by the parcel-room an old man looked about him with anxious eyes.