“You are colder than I am, Giacomo,” he said. “Take them.”
“But you are cold, too, Filippo.”
“I will put my hands in my pockets. Don’t mind me.”
Of course this conversation took place in Italian; for, though Phil had learned considerable English, Giacomo understood but a few words of it.
The gloves afforded some protection, but still both boys were very cold. They were in Brooklyn, having crossed the ferry in the morning. They had wandered to a part not closely built up, where they were less sheltered, and experienced greater discomfort.
“Can’t we go in somewhere and get warm? pleaded Giacomo.
“Here is a grocery store. We will go in there.”
Phil opened the door and entered. The shopkeeper, a peevish-looking man, with lightish hair, stood behind the counter weighing out a pound of tea for a customer.
“What do you want here, you little vagabonds?” he exclaimed, harshly, as he saw the two boys enter.
“We are cold,” said Phil. “May we stand by your stove and get warm?”