Tumpitum—tump! tumpitum—tump! drummed the Elevated. Kitty laughed. The tocsin! Always something happened when she heard it.
“Pearls!” she cried, dragging him toward a jeweller's window.
“No!” he said, holding back. “I hate—jewels! How I hate them!” He broke away from her and hurried on.
She had to run after him. Had she hesitated they might have become separated. Hated jewels? No, no! There should be no questions, verbal or mental, this night. She presently forced him to slow down. “Not so fast! We must never become separated,” she warned. “Our safety—such as it is—lies in being together.”
“I'm an ass. Perhaps my head is ratty without my realizing it. I fancy I'm like a dog that's been kicked; I'm trying to run away from the pain. What's this tomb?”
“The Metropolitan Opera House.”
As they were passing a thin, wailing sound came to the ears of both. Seated with his back to the wall was a blind fiddler with a tin cup strapped to a knee. He was out of bounds; he had no right on Broadway; but he possessed a singular advantage over the law. He could not be forced to move on without his guide—if he were honestly blind. Hundreds of people were passing; but the fiddler's “Last Rose of Summer” wasn't worth a cent. His cup was empty.
“The poor thing!” said Kitty.
“Wait!” Hawksley approached the fiddler, exchanged a few words with him, and the blind man surrendered his fiddle.
“Give me your hat!” cried Kitty, delighted.