“Well, we cal’late ter take in Bunker Hill an’ Faneuil Hall sure,” returned the old man with a confidence that told of new courage imbibed with his tea. “Then we thought mebbe we’d ride in the subway an’ hear one of the big preachers if they happened ter be holdin’ meetin’s anywheres this week. Mebbe you can tell us, eh?”
Across the table the man called Harding choked over his food and Livingstone frowned.
“Well,” began Livingstone slowly.
“I think,” interrupted Harding, taking a newspaper from his pocket, “I think there are services there,” he finished gravely, pointing to the glaring advertisement of a ten-cent show, as he handed the paper across to Livingstone.
“But what time do the exercises begin?” demanded Hezekiah in a troubled voice. “Ye see, there’s Bunker Hill an’--sugar! Abby, ain’t that pretty?” he broke off delightedly. Before him stood a slender glass into which the waiter was pouring something red and sparkling.
The old lady opposite grew white, then pink. “Of course that ain’t wine, Mr. Livingstone?” she asked anxiously.
“Give yourself no uneasiness, my dear Mrs. Warden,” interposed Harding. “It’s lemonade--pink lemonade.”
“Oh,” she returned with a relieved sigh. “I ask yer pardon, I’m sure. You wouldn’t have it, ‘course, no more’n I would. But, ye see, bein’ pledged so, I didn’t want ter make a mistake.”
There was an awkward silence, then Harding raised his glass.
“Here’s to your health, Mrs. Warden!” he cried gayly. “May your trip----”