instantly every sled stopped. Not so the tongues. Babel broke loose.
Some went off in silence; others crowded about the officer,
expostulating, cajoling, grumbling. It was "the first snow;" they
"always slid on that hill;" "it did not hurt anybody;" "nobody cared,"
etc.

"This gentleman has complained, and you must stop," said the officer.

They all turned on Livingstone with sudden hate.

"Arr-oh-h!" they snarled in concert. "We ain't a-hurtin' him! What's he
got to do wid us anyhow!"

One more apt archer than the rest, shouted, "He ain't no gentleman--a
_gentleman_ don't never interfere wid poor little boys what ain't a-done
him no harm!"

But they stopped, and the more timid or impatient stole off to find new
and less inconveniently guarded inclines.

Livingstone passed on. He did not know that the moment he left and the
officer turned his back, the whole hillside swarmed again into life and
fun and joy. He did not know this; but he bore off with him a new thorn
which even his feeling of civic virtue could not keep from rankling. His
head ached, and he grew crosser and crosser with every step.

He had never seen so many beggars. It was insufferable. For this
evening, at least, every one was giving--except Livingstone. Want was
stretching out its withered hand even to Poverty and found it filled.
But Livingstone took no part in it. The chilly and threadbare