There, directly behind him, he beheld an exclusive little procession consisting of two damsels in single file, the first soiled with house-moving, the second with apple sauce.
For greater caution they had removed their shoes; and each damsel, as she paraded, dangled from each far-extended hand a shoe. And both damsels, whether beneath apple sauce or dust smudge, were suffused with the rapture of a great mockery.
They were walking with their stummicks out o' joint.
At sight of William's face they squealed. They turned and ran. They got themselves out of sight.
Simultaneously, the air filled with solid thunder and the pompous train shook the ground. Ah, woe's the word! This was the thing that meant to bear away the golden girl and honeysuckle of the world—meant to, and would, not abating one iron second!
Now a porter had her hand-bag.
Dear Heaven! to be a porter—yes, a colored one! What of that, NOW? Just to be a simple porter, and journey with her to the far, strange pearl among cities whence she had come!
The gentle porter bowed her toward the steps of his car; but first she gave Flopit into the hands of May Parcher, for a moment, and whispered a word to Wallace Banks; then to Joe Bullitt; then to Johnnie Watson;—then she ran to William.
She took his hand.
“Don't forget!” she whispered. “Don't forget Lola!”