policeman touched him with his nightstick, and spoke to him kindly
enough, but the boy only backed away from the man until he was out of
his reach, and then ran on again, slipping and stumbling on the ice and
snow. He ran to Christopher Street, through Greenwich Village, and on to
the wharves.

It was quite late, and he had recovered from his hunger, and only felt a
sick tired ache at his heart. His feet were heavy and numb, and he was
very sleepy. People passed him continually, and doors opened into
churches and into noisy glaring saloons and crowded shops, but it did
not seem possible to him that there could be any relief from any source
for the sorrow that had befallen him. It seemed too awful, and as
impossible to mend as it would be to bring the crushed plaster into
shape again. He considered dully that his uncle would miss him and wait
for him, and that his anger would increase with every moment of his
delay. He felt that he could never return to his uncle again.

Then he came to another park, opening into a square, with lighted
saloons on one side, and on the other great sheds, with ships lying
beside them, and the electric lights showing their spars and masts
against the sky. It had ceased snowing, but the air from the river was
piercing and cold, and swept through the wires overhead with a ceaseless
moaning. The numbness had crept from his feet up over the whole extent
of his little body, and he dropped upon a flight of steps back of a
sailors' boarding-house, and shoved his hands inside of his jacket for
possible warmth. His fingers touched the figure he had hidden there and
closed upon it lightly, and then his head dropped back against the wall,
and he fell into a heavy sleep. The night passed on and grew colder, and
the wind came across the ice-blocked river with shriller, sharper
blasts, but Guido did not hear it.