ers; for had he not said that he must be sure to go? But when the parson came up, this purpose had failed him, and he had apparently shrunk to half his size behind the bulk of the door-keeper, fearing most of all things that the parson would discover him and know why he was there.
He was still lingering outside when the parson reappeared and started homeward; and he sat down and watched him out of sight. He seemed cruelly hurt, and his eyes filled with tears.
"I'd have taken him in the very first one," he said, choking down a sob; and then, as if he felt this to be unjust, he murmured over and over: "Maybe he forgot me; maybe he didn't mean it; maybe he forgot me."
Perhaps an hour later, slowly and with many pauses, he drew near the door of the parson's home. There he lifted his hand three times before he could knock.
"The parson's not at home," the widow Spurlock had called sharply down to him.
With this the last hope had died out of his bosom; for having dwelt long on the parson's kindness to him—upon all the parson's tireless efforts to befriend him—he had summoned the courage at last to go and ask him to lend him a quarter.
With little thought of whither he went, he now turned back down-town, but some time later he was still standing at the entrance of the museum.
He looked up the street again. All the Leubas were coming, Tom walking, with a very haughty air, a few feet ahead.
"Why don't you go in?" he said, loudly, walking up to David and jingling the silver in his pockets. "What
