“Bless me, what’s that!” exclaimed Emily, laughing.
“Pardiggle tracts for the poor,” said Muriel, jestingly. “Patrick, tell Charles to hurry.”
Patrick went in and soon returned with Tugmutton, who jumped down the steps, and scrambled into the carriage. Tugmutton’s fat face was all agrin and shining like satin-wood. The happy youth had devoured a whole pie, and was in a state of supreme exhilaration. His repletion, however, did not prevent him from ogling the basket by his side, and he would have liked nothing better than to make his dessert on its contents.
Muriel gave the driver his directions, and the vehicle started off down Temple and into Cambridge street to the corner of Garden. They were turning up Garden street, when Tugmutton opened his great eyes, and said.
“Well now, I declare! If there ain’t Mr. Harrington!”
Muriel leaned forward, and caught sight of the noble soldier-figure of Harrington striding up the street before them.
“Hullo! Mr. Harrington! I say!” screeched Tugmutton.
Harrington turned, with the sun on the martial lines of his face and beard. He caught sight of the inmates of the carriage instantly, and signaling to the driver to stop, he came down the street, to the side of the carriage.
“What is it, John?” asked Muriel.