It was some minutes before Hezekiah’s dry tongue and lips could frame his question, and then his words were so low-spoken and indistinct that the first two men he asked did not hear. The third man frowned and pointed to a policeman. The fourth snapped: “Take the elevated for Charlestown or the trolley-cars, either;” all of which served but to puzzle Hezekiah the more.
Little by little the dazed old man and his wife fell back before the jostling crowds. They were quite against the side of the building when Livingstone spoke to them.
“Well, well, if here aren’t my friends again!” he exclaimed cordially.
There was something of the fierceness of a drowning man in the way Hezekiah took hold of that hand.
"Mr. Livin’stone!" he cried; then he recollected himself. “We was jest goin’ ter Bunker Hill,” he said jauntily.
“Yes?” smiled Livingstone. “But your luncheon--aren’t you hungry? Come with me; I was just going to get mine.”
“But you--I--” Hezekiah paused and looked doubtingly at his wife.
“Indeed, my dear Mrs. Warden, you’ll say ‘Yes,’ I know,” urged Livingstone suavely. “Only think how good a nice cup of tea would taste now.”
“I know, but--” She glanced at her husband.
“Nonsense! Of course you’ll come,” insisted Livingstone, laying a gently compelling hand on the arm of each.