It was long past the hour for morning newspapers. Other boys had cried them up and down the street, but now they had ceased.
Two or three times the old man muttered to himself:—
“He is a child! May he not forget sometimes?” but in a moment he would rise from his chair, and feeling with one hand for the wall of the houses, he would advance slowly down the narrow street and listen to the noises that came from the wider one and the square beyond.
Fish was being cried, fresh from Phalerum, and summer vegetables of all kinds, greens for salad, and fruit.
“Cool, cool mulberries!” cried a man with a good tenor voice, making a song of the words. “Black are the mulberries! Sweet are the mulberries! Buy mulberries! Cool, cool mulberries!” Then an old voice quavered out, “Pitchers from Ægina! Pitchers for cold water! Big pitchers! Little pitchers!”
But no one cried newspapers. The hour for them was long past, and slowly, and stumblingly, Kyr Themistocli found his way back to his straw chair. The sun was gaining on the shade.
“He will not come now before the afternoon,” muttered the old man; but still he did not go indoors.
Suddenly, a voice hailed him close at hand.
“Good day to you, Kyr Themistocli!” It was not Aleko’s voice. It was a man’s voice; a voice he knew.
“How is it that you are sitting outside at this hour? The sun will be on your head in a moment.”