“Eighteenth Street, near Broadway.”
“Eighteenth? That’s somewheres between Seventeenth and Nineteenth, ain’t it?” said Uncle William, dryly.
“Yes.” The artist smiled faintly.
Uncle William nodded. “I thought so. And I don’t s’pose they’ve changed the lay of Broadway a gre’ deal?”
“No—not much.”
“Well, I reckon I can find it. I gen’ally do; and I can’t get far out o’ the way with this.” He touched the compass that hung from the fob of the great watch. “I’ve been putty much all over the world with that. I reckon it’ll p’int about the same in New York as it does in Arichat. Now, I’ve got your breakfast ’most ready, but I can’t seem to remember about your coffee.—You take sugar and milk in it, don’t you?”
“Yes.” The tone was almost sulky.
Uncle William looked at him shrewdly over his spectacles. “I don’t believe you feel well enough to see anybody for a good while, do you?”
The artist’s face changed subtly—like a child’s. It was almost cheerful.
Uncle William laughed out. “That’s better—a little mite better. I guess ’bout day after to-morrow you’ll do to see company.”