“U-u-upon my word,” stuttered Titus, “he’s saying his prayers. T-t-this time he’ll be off for good—must have been drugged.”
“It’s a case of natural or unnatural fatigue,” said his grandfather. “Drugs would probably cause him to sleep uninterruptedly. Go get a sleigh and we will drive him home. Child,” and he bent down and slightly shook him, “where do you live?”
“Forty-five River Street,” he replied, drowsily, “at Mrs. Tingsby’s.”
When he found himself lifted in among warm fur sleigh robes he slept more soundly than ever.
“River Street—River Street,” said the Judge. “Poor child!”
In a short time they had left the crowded, brightly lighted streets, and were traversing the long, dingy narrow one that Titus so much disliked.
On one side of the street there were wharves behind the houses. The traffic for the day was over, and the wharves were dull and deserted, but there was some life on the street, particularly about the saloons and small shops.
Even River Street must have its Christmas Eve.
“Forty-five,” said the driver, “here it is,” and he stopped beside a narrow house—the middle one of three dingy, uninviting dwellings.
“Mere shells of buildings,” muttered the Judge, glancing up at the houses, “and the poor haven’t coal to heat them, while we with well built houses have plenty of fuel.”