“This way, Hawkins!” John Bruce called—and dismissed the bell boy with a wave of his hand.
And then, as Hawkins reached the door, John Bruce stared in amazement, and for a moment absolved the clerk for his diagnosis. Hawkins' face was like parchment, devoid of color; his hands, twisting at the old felt hat, trembled as with the ague; and the blue eyes, fever-burned they seemed, stared out in a fixed way from under the shaggy brows.
John Bruce pulled the old man inside the apartment, and closed the door.
“Good Lord, Hawkins!” he exclaimed anxiously. “What's the matter with you?”
Hawkins caught at John Bruce's arm.
“It's to-morrow morning,” he said hoarsely. “Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock.”
“What is?” inquired John Bruce. He forced the old cabman gently into a chair. “You're upset, Hawkins. Here—wait! I'll get you something.”
But Hawkins held him back.
“I don't want a drink.” There was misery, bitterness, in Hawkins' voice. “I don't want a drink—for once. It's come! It—it's come to the end now. Crang and—and my little girl are going to be married to-morrow morning.”
And then John Bruce laughed quietly, and laid his hand reassuringly on the old cabman's shoulder.