But they stopped, and the more timid or impatient stole off to find new and less inconveniently guarded inclines.
Livingstone passed on. He did not know that the moment he left and the officer turned his back, the whole hillside swarmed again into life and fun and joy. He did not know this; but he bore off with him a new thorn which even his feeling of civic virtue could not keep from rankling. His head ached, and he grew crosser and crosser with every step.
He had never seen so many beggars. It was insufferable. For this evening, at least, every one was giving—except Livingstone. Want was stretching out its withered hand even to Poverty and found it filled. But Livingstone took no part in it. The chilly and threadbare street-venders of shoe-strings, pencils and cheap flowers, who to-night were offering in their place tin toys, mistletoe and holly-boughs, he pushed roughly out of his way; he snapped angrily at beggars who had the temerity to accost him.
"Confound them! They ought to be run in by the police!"
A red-faced, collarless man fell into the same gait with him, and in a cajoling tone began to mutter something of his distress.
"Be off. Go to the Associated Charities," snarled Livingstone, conscious of the biting sarcasm of his speech.
"Go where, sir?"
"Go to the devil!"
The man stopped in his tracks.
A ragged, meagre boy slid in through the crowd just ahead of Livingstone, to a woman who was toiling along with a large bundle. Holding out a pinched hand, he offered to carry the parcel for her. The woman hesitated.