CHAPTER XIX
ADAM WARD'S WORK
It was evening. The Interpreter was sitting in his wheel chair on the
balcony porch with silent Billy not far away. Beyond the hills on the
west the sky was faintly glowing in the last of the sun's light. The
Flats were deep in gloomy shadows out of which the grim stacks of the
Mill rose toward the smoky darkness of their overhanging cloud. Here
and there among the poor homes of the workers a lighted window or a
lonely street lamp shone in the murky dusk. But the lights of the
business section of the city gleamed and sparkled like clusters and
strings of jewels, while the residence districts on the hillside were
marked by hundreds of twinkling, starlike points.
The quiet was rudely broken by a voice at the outer doorway of the hut.
The tone was that of boisterous familiarity. "Hello! hello there!
Anybody home?"
"Here," answered the Interpreter. "Come in. Or, I should say, come
out," he added, as his visitor found his way through the darkness of
the living room. "A night like this is altogether too fine to spend
under a roof."
"Why in thunder don't you have a light?" said the visitor, with a loud
freedom carefully calculated to give the effect of old and privileged
comradeship.
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