He set her on her feet and steadied her while she wavered. She recognized her father’s voice and ran to him, crying: “Papa! poor papa!” They whispered together for a moment, then he heard the old man groan: “We are beggars now! beggars!” RoBards moved to them with hands outstretched in sympathy, but when they saw him they stared and shrank from him. The old man cowered over his gold-headed cane, and Patty set her arm under his to help him as they tottered along the wall, the father’s white head wagging, the daughter’s form bent as if with age. They looked to be beggars indeed—and in a city where the rich were especially smitten. CHAPTER VIII The cart with the powder kegs moved on, but RoBards did not follow. The holiday of overturning buildings had ceased to suggest either a sacred duty or a pastime. He drifted irresolute about the town. He went home at last, cold, cold, cold. The distance was thrice as long as when he ran with the Fire Kings. St. John’s Park was like a graveyard when he reached it. Though it was far from the hour of winter sunrise, the bare trees were thrilled with daybreak ardor; the houses were pink with tremulous auroral rose. But no birds sang or flew, and the dawn in the sky was the light of devastation. He hoped for and dreaded the meeting with his wife. He had been preparing his defence all the way home. He was a good lawyer and he had a good case, but women were not like the judges he found on the bench before him. Women had their own statutes and procedures, and appeals were granted on the most peculiar grounds. But his wife was not at home. She had stopped at her father’s, of course, for a while. The black folk about the house were asleep while the white man’s town went up in smoke. It was none of their affair. He flung down his crushing helmet, drew off his sodden boots, and put his benumbed toes against the warming stove. He meant to keep awake till Patty came back. But he nodded stupidly. When, as it seemed, he flung up his head for the last long nod, his eyes found broad daylight. The stove was cold, and he was chilled again. He heard the sounds of breakfast-getting on the floor below. Some one was shoveling up coal from the bin in the hall closet. He glanced at his own clothes. His hands were grimed. His red flannel shirt was foul. He fell back from the mirror at the sight of his reflection. He looked a negro, with only his eyeballs white. Aching with fatigue, he stripped to the skin and put on clean underclothes. He cracked the water in the pitcher and filled the bowl with lumps of ice. When he had soused his face and hands, the bowl was full of ink and his face was not half clean. He went to the door and, with jaws dripping darkly, howled to his black man, Cuff, for water. The answer came up the stairs: “Cistern done froze. Pump at de corner don’t pump. Man who sells de bottles of water ain’t come round—he bottles all pop, most like. I’ll fotch you what we got in de kittle.”