“Here, ma’am, I’ll go with you,” said a kind-hearted neighbor, one of the few now left in the rapidly thinning crowd. He took the poor woman by the arm, saying, “You Simpson children come along, now,” and then waited respectfully for the Maynards to lead the way. So King marched boldly ahead, followed by Midget and Kitty, with the tired Rosy Posy between them. Next came Mrs. Simpson and her escort, and then the seven Simpson children, shy and awkward now, by reason of a sudden realization of where they were going.
It was far from being an imposing-looking parade. Kingdon, though valiant-hearted, was secretly a little dubious about the whole proceeding. It had been Marjorie’s idea, and he had willingly subscribed to it, but it certainly was a great responsibility.
It was right—yes, he felt sure it was right—but it seemed to open up such a bewildering array of future consequences, that he couldn’t even dare to think about them.
Then suddenly he realized that he was lonely. Why should he walk alone? He turned to join the other three, feeling the necessity of sympathetic companionship, but at the sight of the three girls behind him, he burst into a peal of laughter.
“Oh! if you could see yourselves!” he cried, for he hadn’t before noticed their appearance. “Mops, you’re just covered with smoky smudges—your dress is more black than white! And Kit, how did you get torn so?”
The girls stood still and looked at each other. Never before in their short lives, had they been through an occasion so momentous as to render them entirely oblivious of everything else. But the fire and its thrilling scenes, followed by this absorbing responsibility of the Simpsons’ entire career, had left them no time to think of themselves or each other.
“Goodness gracious me!” exclaimed Marjorie, as she looked at the awful wrecks of her two sisters’ once immaculate costumes; “am I as bad as that?”
“Your face is even blacker than Kit’s,” declared King, after looking critically at each. “Rosy Posy, you seem to have met a waterspout somewhere.”
“Ess,” said the little one, forlornly. “Nassy old big man frowed water on me out o’ a long hose fing.”
It was quite evident that a careless fireman had deluged the child, and King looked greatly concerned.