“How do you and Reba get on?”
Larkins shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. “And, by the way, how came you down here? Whom did you expect to meet?”
“Not you, certainly, old chap; though I am deuced glad to see you. I came to meet the mater, who was to have arrived by this train from Washington, only she didn’t come—she never does. I’m used to it. I shall find a tel. when I get back to Sixty-second Street.”
“Here’s my carriage now. Good-by, Larkins. Call and see me at the Star to-morrow.”
“Thank you. By-by.”
The friends parted.
Hanson went to the carriage.
Larkins waved his hand and walked off.
The hackman jumped down from his box and opened the door for his fare.
Hanson entered, and laid the child down on the cushion on the front seat, and sank down into the back one with a sigh of relief. The child had become a burden, and he had not been accustomed to heavy burdens. He was very tired.