IT was the season of rains, and the great sewer that drains the northwestern section of the city had burst again, and with its collapse sunk a goodly part of two streets at the junction of Germantown Avenue and Third Street. Gartenheim was doing the repairing as he had often done before; great heaps of brick and timber lay about the break in the street; a donkey engine, shrouded in a canvas covering loomed up spectre like in the fog; from the small windows of the tool shanty crept a pale flare of light; and a man could be seen within, bent over a mass of papers and time-books. Martin and Bella paused at the foot of a broken spile-driver.
“It’s our Dick,” breathed Bella. “Let’s go some other way.”
“Oh, come on! What’s the matter with ye. He won’t see ye.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ apast! He’d never let me hear the last of it if he seen me out so late.”
“Well, speak yer piece, here. What d’ye want to say?”
“You know well enough what it is.”
“Say, is it that same old cry? Youse make me tired!”
“I don’t care! I on’y want you to do right by me; you promised you would.”
Martin laughed. Bella’s face was pale, and the damp, penetrating mist made her shiver; a single, heavy drop of water was falling from a height upon her umbrella, with a measured beat that kept time with the pulsation of her heart.
“I didn’t promise nothin’,” said he. “D’ye take me for a gilly?”