The Mayor thought he could laugh, but his laughter was nothing to this ecstasy of youthful enjoyment, and his harsh, thick tones gradually died away, while he listened delightedly to this rippling outflow from pretty lips.
“It is comical,” he said, after a time, when she had somewhat calmed down. “I guess I ought to apologize to you. I have treated you mean. But you got a corner on me.”
“A corner in street urchins,” said Berty, gaspingly; “well, I’m obliged to you for getting the park, but I must say I wish you would give the work some of your personal superintendence.”
“I’ve been down,” he said, unguardedly.
“When?” asked Berty, promptly.
“At night,” he said, with some confusion. “I slip down after I know you’ve gone to bed.”
“How do you think the workmen are getting on?” she asked, anxiously.
“Fairly well—what do you want that high fence for?”
“For games—wall games. I wish we could have baths at the end of the wharf—public baths. The boys can go down to the river, but the women and children have no chance. Poor souls, they suffer. You would not like to be cut off from your daily bath, would you, sir?”
“Well, no,” replied the Mayor, cautiously, “I don’t suppose I would.”