Sally, watching Enid, saw the woman’s involuntary start of recognition as Bybee crossed her path, saw her hesitate, then turn toward him, determination stamped on her lovely, sensitive face.
When Bybee had bared his head deferentially and was bending over the small woman to hear her low spoken words, Sally was seized with fright. She knew instinctively that Enid Barr’s questions concerned her, but whether they concerned Sally Ford, runaway from the state orphanage, or “Princess Lalla,” fake crystal-gazer, she had no way of knowing. All she knew for certain was that Enid had overheard Betsy’s shriek: “That’s not Princess Lalla! That’s Sally Ford—play-acting!” And she fled, feeling Enid’s eyes upon her but not daring to look back.
There was less than half an hour before the next and final show was to start. She spent the time in the dress tent, wishing with all her heart that she was through work for the day and that she could go to David. Poor David! lying wounded in a stuffy, hot berth, tormented with worries as to the future and possibly with regrets for the past, while Eddie Cobb strutted on the midway as the hero of the safe robbery.
It would be better for David, infinitely better, if she could screw up her courage to the point of going back to the orphanage and taking her punishment. It would be so simple! She had only to seek out Enid Barr and say to her: “I am Sally Ford! Send for Mrs. Stone.” And perhaps Enid would intercede for her, for she seemed so very kind.
“Wake up, Sally,” Bess, one of the dancers of the “girlie show,” called to her, as she came shuffling into the tent on tortured feet. “Gus is ballyhooing your show.”
Yes, her mind was made up. She would tell Enid Barr, beg her to intercede with the orphanage for her, and with the police for David. But there was no Enid Barr among the audience at the last show of the evening, and even Van Horne was absent. In spite of her good resolutions Sally felt an immense relief. Reprieve! She certainly could not give herself up if there was no one to give up to!
“Going to the show train to see David?” Gus whispered, when the last show was finished and the audience was straggling toward the exits.
“Of course!” Sally cried. “Is he worse? Don’t hide anything from me, Gus—”
“Worse!” Gus laughed. “Bybee says he’s yelling for food and threatens to get up and cook it himself if they don’t give him something besides mush and milk. Come along! I’ll walk you over to the show train. You’re too pretty to be allowed to go alone. Some village dude would be trying to kidnap you.”
They found David sitting up in his berth, working crossword puzzles, Mrs. Bybee sitting on the edge of his bed to jot down the words as he gave them to her.