Page:Tom Beauling (1901).pdf/156

 was slightly older than he. "Where is Jack?"

"He's—he," she said. "The man in the fruit-store let him sit there while I went to find some place to stay. We can't go on, poor little Jack is too sick; but he isn't going to die, Tom, he isn't. They said he was, at the hotel,—at all the hotels,—and that's why they wouldn't take us in."

"You haven't told me why you're here at all," said Beauling. "Come, we'll go and get Jack, and you tell."

The woman shook with a sob, and pointed out with a dejected, nervous little movement the direction in which they should go.

"He—"

"Who, Tibbs? Let's get it all straight," said Beauling.

"Yes, Tibbs." She spoke less hysterically. "He disappeared, and left a letter—poor old Tibbs!—as if it mattered what he'd done. I'll show it to you if you like—only I'd rather not, Tom; he said I must try and not think too hardly of