“Porter, porter, porter.” “Taxi, taxi.” “Car for Royal Scott Hotel.” The calls were all around them in more variations of the English tongue than they ever knew existed.
“Here, girls, this way,” Dr. Prescott beckoned them to follow her. “Here’s the baggage.”
Bess turned and followed her. Rhoda, Amelia, Grace, and Laura were already at her side. Nan started too, but a small child, tears streaming down its face, halted her.
She stooped down, pulled its grimy fists out of its eyes, pushed its blond hair back, and comforted, “There, child, there. Don’t cry. What has happened?”
“I didna ken.” The child cried harder than ever.
“Are you lost?”
“I didna ken,” the answer was the same, but he grabbed hold of her coat and pulled her along after him.
She glanced back toward her friends, but could catch no one’s attention. She stopped. The small force below her tugged hard at her coat.
“Ye canna stop noo.” He was a persistent little Scotsman.
“No, I canna,” Nan thought to herself and followed, wondering what it was all about. He led her past the baggage, the train, and a small window where men were busy changing American dollars to English pounds. They passed lunch carts, magazine racks, and an information tower. Once Nan stopped, but the little urchin’s eyes filled so quickly with tears that she gave up completely and resolved to find out what was wrong.