Once outside, Hughie took the girl's arm and fairly ran, never pausing till they reached the brightly lighted sea-front. He had an idea that a cheerful and crowded thoroughfare would prove more salubrious than deserted and ill-lit byways.
Once clear of their late surroundings the two slackened pace, and Hughie surveyed his charge with comical perplexity.
"Now what am I to do with you?" he inquired.
"Take me home," said the girl, sobbing.
Her pluck and fortitude, having brought her dry-eyed through the worst of the conflict, had now taken their usual leave of absence, and she was indulging very properly in a few reactionary and comforting tears.
"Where do you live?" asked Hughie.
"Brooklyn."
"That's a matter for a trolley-car. Come along."
He took her arm again, rather diffidently this time,—his old masculine self-consciousness was returning,—and hurried off to what the Coney Islanders call a "deepo." Here they ensconced themselves in the corner of a fairly empty car, and started on their twenty-mile run, viâ Sheepshead Bay and other delectable spots, to Brooklyn Bridge.
As soon as the car started, Hughie turned to his companion.