Finding Uncle Peter uncommunicative, he mused during the remainder of the ride, envying the careless ease with which Percival and his friends, and even Uncle Peter, wore the prescribed evening regalia of gentlemen, and yearning for the distinguished effect of its black and white elegance upon himself.
They went to their connecting rooms, and Billy Brue regretfully sought his bed, marvelling how free people in a town like New York could ever bring themselves to waste time in sleep. As he dozed off, he could hear the slow, measured tread of Uncle Peter pacing the floor in the next room.
He was awakened by hearing his name called. Uncle Peter stood in a flood of light at the door of his room. He was fully dressed.
"Awake, Billy?"
"Is it gittin'-up time?"
The old man came into the room and lighted a gas-jet. He looked at his watch.
"No; only a quarter to four. I ain't been to bed yet."
Billy Brue sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"Rheumatiz again, Uncle Peter?"
"No; I been thinkin', Billy. How do you like the game?"