One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. "Your son," answered the boy. Can you imagine how dreadful it must be for them? Most of them arrive here almost penniless. Sometimes I am frightfully busy; and then there will be periods of dullness. . . ’ ‘Will you have done, Gerald?’ demanded Hilary, exasperated.
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