Before them, the street was a tangle of dodging pedestrians, heavy motor trucks loaded with freight and baggage, arriving and departing autos, and desperately clanging street cars. Above, iron pillars and girders supported an elevated railway system. Close to where they stood a narrow moving stairway carried upward its perpetual stream of passengers, bound for that upper level of traffic where the electric train had passed.
Turning, the dazed wanderers saw behind them, not any vast expanse of silver light, but the wall of a long, low building, pierced with many windows and several doors. From one of those doors, apparently, they had just emerged.
With some difficulty the three extricated themselves from the throng. Finding a comparatively quiet spot by the wall of the building they stood there, very close together.
Suddenly Viola gave a sharp exclamation.
"But this-this is Philadelphia! This is the entrance to the Market Street Ferry in Philadelphia!"
Her brother slapped his thigh.
"And to think I did not recognize a place I've been at myself at least three times! But who would have thought we'd get home so easy-or at the other end of the city from where we started?"
Suddenly the melancholy ex-lawyer chuckled aloud.
"I never thought," he said, "that Philadelphia, city of homes or not, would seem homelike to me. By George, I realize now what a charming old place it is! Terry, couldn't you resign wandering and settle down here for the rest of your life-right on this spot, if necessary?"
The Irishman grinned cheerfully.