For the first and only time in her life Maria Flathers had collided with an idea. In vain she reversed her mental engines and tried to back off, but the collision was head on, and she and the idea were firmly welded together.
“Here's the whip han'le!” she called wildly, as the wind caught her skirts and twisted them about her. “I been usin' it fer a thimble. An' here's the whip itself—Take'em along! Take'em fer a witness!”
Once again the red-topped wagon got started, this time in earnest. Through the mud and slush of Bean Alley, past the Dump Heap, across the Common, the sturdy little mare dashed furiously.
“Don't breathe through your mouth, Chick!” implored Miss Lady. “And don't be afraid. All you have to do is to tell what you saw. Don't keep back anything, tell it just as you told it to me.”
“'Bout the slot machine?” queried an anxious voice from the blankets.
“About everything. Nobody is going to hurt you, or blame you. You aren't catching cold, are you? Here put on my gloves, and you mustn't talk, not another word.”
For an interminable time they splashed through the slush of the road, before they came to the pavements of the city. Looking out of the wagon, they could see the broad yellow waters of the river with its long, black coal barges, and the dim outline of Billy-goat Hill, growing fainter in the distance.
“Faster, Mr. Flathers, drive faster!” implored Miss Lady.
Phineas willingly laid the whip across the flank of the little mare, and they dashed along, through the crowded thoroughfare into a broad street of warehouses, where they followed the tramway straight across the murky city. All the while the sleet beat on the red top of the wagon and rattled under the horse's hoofs, and Miss Lady sat clasping Chick, counting the passing moments.
At last the dark courthouse loomed up ahead of them, and Phineas rounding a curb by a fraction, dashed for the open square.