CHAPTER LXII.
THE LAST THAT WAS EVER HEARD OF HARRY BOLTON
That same afternoon, I took my comrade down to the Battery; and we sat on one of the benches, under the summer shade of the trees.
It was a quiet, beautiful scene; full of promenading ladies and gentlemen; and through the foliage, so fresh and bright, we looked out over the bay, varied with glancing ships; and then, we looked down to our boots; and thought what a fine world it would be, if we only had a little money to enjoy it. But that’s the everlasting rub—oh, who can cure an empty pocket?
“I have no doubt, Goodwell will take care of you, Harry,” said I, “he’s a fine, good-hearted fellow; and will do his best for you, I know.”
“No doubt of it,” said Harry, looking hopeless.
“And I need not tell you, Harry, how sorry I am to leave you so soon.”
“And I am sorry enough myself,” said Harry, looking very sincere.
“But I will be soon back again, I doubt not,” said I.
“Perhaps so,” said Harry, shaking his head. “How far is it off?”
“Only a hundred and eighty miles,” said I.