"
"No, I don't know him,--why?"
"Oh, I didn't know but you might know w'ether he'd gone home or not;
but, of course, if you don't know 'im you couldn't tell."
"No, I don't know anything about him," said the man, stretching
himself on the bench for a nap.
Ralph thought he would wait. Indeed, there was nothing better for him
to do. It was warm here, and he had a seat, and he knew of no other
place in the city where he could be so comfortable. The clock on the
wall informed him that it was eight in the evening. He began to feel
hungry. He could see, through a half-opened door, the tempting array
of food on the lunch-counter in another room; but he knew that he
could get none, and he tried not to think of eating. It was very
quiet now in the waiting-room, and it was not very long before Ralph
fell to dozing and dreaming. He dreamed that he was somewhere in deep
distress, and that his mother came, looking for him, but unable to see
him; that she passed so close to him he put out his hand and touched
her; that he tried to speak to her and could not, and so, unaware of
his presence, she went on, leaving him alone in his misery.
The noise of persons coming into the room awoke him, finally, and he
sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around him. He saw, by the clock
on the wall, that it was nearly train time. The escaping steam from
the waiting engine could already be heard outside. People were buying
tickets and making their way hurriedly to the platform; but, among all
those who came in and went out, Ralph could not discover the familiar
face and figure of Sharpman, nor, indeed, could he see any one whom
he knew.
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