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 XXI

bobs up without warning in a city, which starts a train of thought, sad or gay, according to how you look at it. And so, Lucy, Priscilla, and Virginia Adams, walking along Broadway, saw a crowd around a lamp post, upon which was a patrol-box; and, though our girls don’t customarily follow up such sights, Lucy saw a man’s form sprawling flat up against that post, as limp as a rag. Priscilla said, in disgust:—

“Ugh!! It’s Norman Antor! Drunk again!!” and Virginia, hastily grasping both girls’ arms and hurrying past, said:—

“So!! His vacation in jail didn’t do him any good! But, still, it’s too bad. Norman is a good looking, manly lad, with a good mind and a thorough schooling. And now look at him! A common drunk!!”

Priscilla was sad, too, saying:—

“Awful! Awful for so young a chap. What is his Dad doing now?”

“Still in jail,” was all Virginia could say; adding sadly: “I do pity poor young Mary, who sold Antor’s liquor, you know. Doris says that