"Morgan House, did you say, boss?"
"Yes, and on the double-quick."
Another voice now sifted in—a small, thin, pleading voice, too low and indistinct for me to catch the words from where I sat.
"Want to go where?" cried cabby. The conversation was like one over the telephone, in which only one side is heard. "To the orphan asylum? Why, that's three miles from here.... Walk?... See, here, sonny, you wouldn't get halfway.... No, I can't take yer—got a load."
My own head had filled the window now.
"Here, cabby, don't stand there all night! What's the matter, anyway?"
"It's a boy, boss, about a foot high, wants to walk to the orphan 'sylum."
"Pass him in."
He did, literally, through the window, without opening the door, his little wet shoes first, then his sturdy legs in wool stockings, round body encased in a pea-jacket, and last, his head, covered by the same cloth cap I had seen on the platform. I caught him, feet first, and helped land him on the front seat, where he sat looking at me with staring eyes that shone all the brighter in the glare of the arc light. Next a collar-box and a small paper bundle were handed in. These the little fellow clutched eagerly, one in each hand, his eyes still looking into mine.
"Are you an orphan?" I asked—a wholly thoughtless question, of course.