“A-a-are you ill?” asked Titus, sharply.
The child softly patted the front of his coat with his mittened hand, “They kept me late, and Mr. Rat is at his old tricks.”
“You are hungry,” said the Judge.
The child yawned—such a tired, weak little yawn that, to the Judge’s surprise, he tried to suppress. Then he nodded his little head a great many times. “There’s something in the oven for me, but it’s a long way there.”
“We are obstructing the way,” said the Judge, and indeed many persons had stopped and were listening. “Take his hand, Titus—here, child, come into this restaurant.”
Like one walking in sleep he gave his hand to Titus, and allowed himself to be led into the brilliantly lighted white and gold room.
“W-w-wonder what he thinks of it?” murmured Titus to himself. “Here, boy, take off your cap.”
The little boy struggled to keep his hairy or almost hairless headgear, but Titus was inexorable. He finally gave it up, but he gazed at Titus with a slightly injured air, as the bigger boy handed the shabby fur thing to the waiter.
Then with babyish vanity he put up a hand and smoothed the thin crop of curls plastered down on his forehead by a band of perspiration.
“What will you have?” said the Judge to him after they had seated themselves at a small table.