"Brace up, Dick!" the man whispered. "Don't take it so hard."
"If you please," the boy protested, "I'll be late for tea if I don't go now."
The acrobat took his hand—guided him, stumbling, up the aisle: led him into the fresh air, the cool, clean sunlight, of the street.... There had been sudden confusion on the stage. The curtain had fallen with a rush. But it was now lifted, again, and the dismal entertainment was once more in noisy course.
It was now late in the afternoon. The pavement was thronged. Dazed by agony, blinded by the bright light of day, the boy was roughly jostled. The acrobat drew him into an eddy of the stream. There the child offered his hand—and looked up with a dogged little smile.
"Good-bye," he said. "Thank you."
The acrobat caught the hand in a warm clasp. "You don't know your way home, do you?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Where you going?"
The boy looked away. There was a long interval. Into the shuffle and chatter of the passing crowd crept the muffled blare of the orchestra. The acrobat still held the boy's hand tight—still anxiously watched him, his face overcast.
"Box Street?" he asked.