"Thank you," said Phil; but having received them, he gave them to
Giacomo.
"You are colder than I am, Giacomo," he said. "Take them."
"But you are cold, too, Filippo."
"I will put my hands in my pockets. Don't mind me."
Of course this conversation took place in Italian; for, though
Phil had learned considerable English, Giacomo understood but a
few words of it.
The gloves afforded some protection, but still both boys were
very cold. They were in Brooklyn, having crossed the ferry in
the morning. They had wandered to a part not closely built up,
where they were less sheltered, and experienced greater
discomfort.
"Can't we go in somewhere and get warm? pleaded Giacomo.
"Here is a grocery store. We will go in there."
Phil opened the door and entered. The shopkeeper, a
peevish-looking man, with lightish hair, stood behind the counter
weighing out a pound of tea for a customer.
"What do you want here, you little vagabonds?" he exclaimed,
harshly, as he saw the two boys enter.
"We are cold," said Phil. "May we stand by your stove and get
warm?"
"Do you think I provide a fire for all the vagabonds in the
city?" said the grocer, with a brutal disregard of their evident
suffering.
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