One thing
after another delayed us until it was nearly the middle of the
afternoon before we started out again on the streets. The old woman
pinned Elsie's shawl around her more comfortably, kissed her on each
cheek, and told Phil to hurry home with her, that it was getting too
cold to be wandering around, standing on street corners.
She watched us out of sight. As soon as we had turned a corner, Phil
looked ruefully into Elsie's empty cup. "If I had known she was going
to give us the milk and pie, I wouldn't have bought the buns," he
said. "We haven't made much headway, and it gets dark so soon, these
days. I'm afraid the feather fooled us about the way to go."
We wandered on and on all the rest of that long afternoon, sometimes
playing before every door, and sometimes walking blocks before
stopping for a performance. Phil's new shoes tired his feet until he
could scarcely drag them, and little Elsie's lips were blue with cold.
At last when the music-box struck up "Home, Sweet Home" for what
seemed the ten hundreth time, her voice quavered through the first
line and stopped short with a sob.
"Oh, Phil, I'm getting tireder and tireder! Can't you make that box
skip that song?" she begged. "If I hear it another time I just can't
stand it! I'll _have_ to turn around and go back home."
Phil glanced anxiously at the clouded sky. The sun was so low it was
hidden by the tall buildings, and the darkness was coming on rapidly.
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