Another was bending over a little handrail, his head sunk, his arms almost trailing to the ground.
“King Edward,” he sobbed, “King Edward.”
A third, seated on a stool, looked feebly up, with tears visible in his eyes.
“Walker House,” he moaned. “First-class accommodation for—” then he broke down and cried.
“Take this handbag,” I said to one of the men, “to the Prince George.”
The man ceased his groaning for a moment and turned to me with something like passion.
“Why do you come to us?” he protested. “Why not go to one of the others. Go to him,” he added, as he stirred with his foot a miserable being who lay huddled on the ground and murmured at intervals, “Queen’s! Queen’s Hotel.”
But my new friend, who stood at my elbow, came to my rescue.
“Take his bags,” he said, “you’ve got to. You know the by-law. Take it or I’ll call a policeman. You know me. My name’s Narrowpath. I’m on the council.”
The man touched his hat and took the bag with a murmured apology.