"It's 'igh time 'e was in bed," said Mr. Watlin, taking the fiddle
brusquely from the Italian's hands, "'e don't fancy doleful ditties, an' no
more do I, hey Johnnie?"
Tony only smiled at me. "I tink you like my music," he said.
Harry now announced rather hurriedly that he must be going, and after he
had said good-night to every one, and thanked Mary Ellen in a very manly
way, he still kept my hand in his, and, together, we passed out of doors.
It was frosty cold. The air came gratefully to my hot cheeks. Harry stared
up at the stars in silence for a moment, then he said:
"I want to tell you something, John, before I go. I don't know just how to
make you understand. But I--I'm not the loafer you think I am--"
"Oh, I don't--"
"No one but a loafer or a sponge would do what I've done tonight," he
persisted, "but I came here because I like you little chaps so
well--and--because--I was so infernally hungry. I hadn't eaten since last
night, you know, and when I heard about the oysters and coffee, I just
couldn't refuse, and--I came."
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, "I'm sorry, Harry! I like you awfully!"
I gave him my hand and, hearing the voices of Mr. Watlin and Tony, he
hurried to the street.