In his impatience, now, the street car seemed to drag along every foot of the way; but a glance at his watch, as he finally reached the Bowery, and, walking then, rapidly approached the cross street a few steps ahead that led to the Sanctuary, told him that it was still but a quarter to nine.  But even at that he quickened his steps a little.  He was free now!  There was a sort of savage, elemental uplift upon him.  He was free!  He could strike now in his own defense—­and hers!  In a few moments he would be at the Sanctuary; in a few more he would be Larry the Bat, and by to-morrow at the latest he would see—­The Tocsin.  After all, that “hour” was not to be taken from him!  It was not, perhaps, the hour that she had meant it should be, thought and prayed, perhaps, that it might be!  It was not the hour of victory.  But it was the hour that meant to him the realisation of the years of longing, the hour when he should see her, see her for the first time face to face, when there should be no more barriers between them, when—­

“Fer Gawd’s sake, mister, buy a pencil!”

A hand was plucking at his sleeve, the thin voice was whining in his ear.  He halted mechanically.  A woman, old, bedraggled, ragged, was thrusting a bunch of cheap pencils imploringly toward him—­and then, with a stifled cry, Jimmie Dale leaned forward.  The eyes that lifted to his for an instant were bright and clear with the vigor of youth, great eyes of brown they were, and trouble, hope, fear, wistfulness, ay, and a glorious shyness were in their depths.  And then the voice he knew so well, the Tocsin’s was whispering hurriedly: 

“I will be waiting here, Jimmie—­for Larry the Bat.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE TOCSIN

It was only a little way back along the street from the Sanctuary to the corner on the Bowery where as Jimmie Dale he had left her, where as Larry the Bat now he was going to meet her again; it would take only a moment or so, even at Larry the Bat’s habitual, characteristic, slouching, gait—­but it seemed that was all too slow, that he must throw discretion to the winds and run the distance.  His blood was tingling; there was elation upon him, coupled with an almost childlike dread that she might be gone.

“The Tocsin!  The Tocsin!” he kept saying to himself.

Yes; she was still there, still whiningly imploring those who passed to buy her miserable pencils—­and then, with a quick-flung whisper to him to follow as he slouched up close to her, she had started slowly down the street.