“Select. It costs a lot of money to go there. The girls are very nice.”
“All right. You can get a letter, just the same; can’t you?”
“Why—I suppose so. I—I never did receive a letter—not one.”
“All right. You’ll get one from me,” promised Scorch, with assurance. “If I find out anything about Old Gordon that looks like we was on his trail, I’ll let you know.”
“That’s very nice of you,” replied Nancy, demurely, but quite amused. “Now, have you finished, Scorch?”
“Full up,” declared the youngster. “The gangplank’s ashore and we’re ready to sail—if we ain’t overloaded,” and he got up from his chair with apparent difficulty.
Nancy had paid the bill and tipped the waiter. She had a good bit of the ten dollars left to slip back in her pocketbook; but she reserved a crisp dollar-bill where it would be handy.
They had plenty of time to walk to the station, and Nancy was glad to do this. Besides, Scorch declared he needed the exercise.
The red-headed boy was a mixture of good-heartedness and mischievousness that both delighted Nancy and horrified her. He was saucy to policemen, truckmen, and anybody who undertook to treat him carelessly on the street. But he aided his charge very carefully over all the crossings, and once ran back into the middle of the street and held up traffic to pick up an old woman’s parcel.
They came to the station, got Nancy’s bag, and Scorch insisted upon taking her to the very step of the car. When she shook hands with him Nancy had the banknote ready and she left it in his hand.