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All the excited nerves in his body that had been resting were tingling again. He could feel his temples throb, count the beats of his heart. For a time nothing happened. He heard no different sounds, though he strained his ears nervously. The moments passed and seemed hours. He crouched motionless, but his stillness was not repose. Howard Eliot guided his charges through the mazes of the city to a restaurant. Moses with the perennial appetite of fourteen ate silently and steadily, not omitting one item on the menu. He gorged. “O, Dadsie,” was the reply, “this is recital afternoon, you know.”.
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“Mother,” he resumed, “I know I must freeze to some sort of business, and that mighty soon, too. But a preacher—why, he can’t be like anybody. He never has any fun.” “To think you let that good-fer-nothin’ Ken Judson, meet our schoolmarm,” wailed Mrs. Wopp. “Why he is the most ungodly feller in town. His folks in England send him a lot of money so’s he will keep away from them, an’ he spends it all in drinkin’ an’ gamblin’.” Had he but dreamed on for an hour or so he would have returned, rested, refreshed, the cheery boy that helped to make the Bennett house a home. But a voice in the road above startled him. Only a word was spoken, a greeting; but it was surly and foreign, Italian. “Wartch yer team Moses,” commanded Mrs. Wopp from the back seat of the democrat..
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