CLINTON’S first day in the city was diligently devoted to sight-seeing, under the direction of Whistler. As it was Saturday, and the last day of Whistler’s vacation, they were both naturally anxious to make the best use of the time. It would be no easy matter to track them through the crowded and intricate streets, and mark the weary miles of brick sidewalk they travelled over, now pausing to look into a gay shop window, or to gaze at an imposing building; now sauntering along the water’s edge, amid a forest of shipping and long ranges of granite warehouses; now making a pleasant detour to the Common, and resting themselves under the shadow of its lofty trees; and now picking their way through the narrow streets of the poor, with their tipsy rows of weak-jointed buildings, their plenitude of foreign faces and strange brogues, and their astonishing overflow of infantile humanity, scattered all along the sidewalks, in undress, half-dress, and almost no dress at all. Nor were these the only novelties that attracted the notice of Clinton. The constant succession of strange faces of every conceivable type, the curious variety in dress and manners, the novel vehicles and equipages in the streets,—these and many other things arrested his attention at every step, and often suggested remarks that seemed very droll to Whistler.
At length, however, the boys were both forced to confess that they were very tired; and towards the middle of the afternoon Clinton concluded that he had seen enough for one day, and proposed to Whistler to return home. His feet, unused to the brick and stone pavement, were now so sore that he walked with difficulty; and he declared that he felt more fatigued than he should if he had hoed corn all day. They accordingly took the shortest route home. Just before they reached the house, the bell in a church steeple which they were passing began to toll.
“What is that for—a funeral?” inquired Clinton.
“No, it’s for a fire, I suppose; they don’t toll the bells for funerals in Boston,” replied Whistler.
“Is it a fire?—let’s go to it!” exclaimed Clinton, forgetting, in his excitement, his weary limbs and tender feet.
“No, I wouldn’t; we’re too tired to run to a fire now,” said Whistler. “Besides, it’s a great way off; I believe it’s over to South Boston. Let me count again.”
The tolling, which had ceased for a minute, was now resumed, and six loud strokes were given, followed by another pause.
“Yes, the fire’s in District No. 6; that’s South Boston,” continued Whistler.
“How far is it from here?” inquired Clinton, who still felt inclined to go to the fire.
“It can’t be less than a mile, and it may be two, if it’s in the further end of South Boston,” replied Whistler.