But the minstrel, bracing one knee against the brick and mortar, thus steadying himself and giving his hands full play, began a series of pantomines so strange that Millie involuntarily exclaimed:
“Why, what in the world ails the man!” And then, struck once more by the pitiful appeal in his eyes, she cried: “Look here, are you sick?”
Only renewed pantomines from the minstrel.
“Are you hungry?” Then, in a tone of discouragement: “What is he at, anyhow?”
But as the man’s hand went from his lips to his ear, even Millie’s dull comprehension was awakened.
“Gracious goodness!” she exclaimed, “he’s deaf and dumb.”
Faster still flew the fingers of the minstrel, sadder and more pitiful grew his face, and Millie watched his movements with renewed interest.
“He’s talking with his fingers,” muttered Millie. “I wonder—”
She stopped suddenly; he was doing something new in the way of pantomine, and Millie guessed its meaning.
“A baby!” she gasped; “it’s something about a baby. One, two, three, ah! five fingers; five babies, five years—oh, say, say, man; say man!”—and Millie’s face was white with agitation, and she barely saved herself from tumbling out of the window, in the intensity and eagerness of her excitement—“you don’t mean—you don’t know anything about our Daisy—you don’t—”