“The city ought to build baths,” said Berty, warmly.
“There’s private charity,” said the Mayor.
“Private charity, my dear sir! You don’t know those River Street people. They have as much pride as you have. What the city does for them is all right—what private citizens do for them publicly, and with all sorts of ridiculous restrictions, angers them.”
The Mayor looked longingly over his shoulder toward the city.
“Oh, pardon me,” said Berty, hurriedly. “I shouldn’t talk business to you in my own boat when you can’t escape me. Pray tell me of your adventures this afternoon. Was your boat stolen?”
“Stolen, no—it was my own carelessness. You know I’m driven to death with business, and if I take a friend out with me he’s got an axe to grind for some one, so I steal off alone whenever I can. Nobody goes to that island, and it’s a fine place to read or snooze, but to-day I neglected to secure my boat, and away it went.”
“And nobody came by?”
“Lots of people, I suppose, but I was asleep until just before you came.”
“Isn’t the river delicious?” said Berty, dreamily.