“What plans has she for you?”
“I don’t know yet, but I think we shall leave the city soon.”
“I am glad you are able to give up selling papers. I hoped my play would be brought out by this time, but there is a hitch somewhere. I should have offered you your old part.”
“And I should have been glad to accept it, but I don’t think I should feel at liberty to do so under present circumstances.”
It occurred to Ben that he would visit Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Though he had spent some months in New York he had only twice crossed the ferry to the large city across the East River. He entered one of the Fulton Ferry boats, and pushed through to the second cabin.
Crouching in the corner was a boy about a year younger than himself, whose sad face and listless air indicated that he was in some trouble. A second glance enabled Ben to identify him as a brother newsboy with whom he had a slight acquaintance.
“Is it you, Frank?” he said, taking a seat beside the boy.
Frank Mordaunt gave him a puzzled look.
“I don’t remember you,” he said slowly.
“And yet we have sold papers together,” said Ben with a smile. “Don’t you remember Ben Bruce?”