Meantime, what of Margie Harrison? Through the dull, stormy day she had been whirled along like the wind. The train was an express, and made few stoppages. Margie took little note of anything which occurred. She sat in her hard seat like one in a trance, and paid no heed to the lapse of time, until the piteous whining of Leo warned her that night was near, and the poor dog was hungry. At the first stopping-place she purchased some bread and meat for him, but nothing for herself. She could not have swallowed a mouthful.
Still the untiring train dashed onward. Boston was reached at last. She got out, stood confused and bewildered, gazing around her. It was night, and the place was strange to her. The cries of the porters and hackmen—the bustle and dire confusion, struck a chill to her heart. The crowd hurried hither and thither, each one intent on his own business, and the lamps gave out a dismal light, dimmed as they were by the hanging clouds of mist and fog. Alone in a great city! For the first time in her life she felt the significance of the words she had so often heard. She had never traveled a half dozen miles before, by herself, and she felt almost as helpless as a little child.
"Carriage, ma'am?" said a hackman, touching her arm.
"Yes," she said, mechanically, and put her hand in her pocket for her porte-monnaie, with a vague idea that she must pay him before she started.
She uttered a low cry of dismay! Her pocket-book was missing! She searched more thoroughly, but it was not to be found. Her pocket had been picked. She turned a piteous face to the hackman.
"My money is lost, sir!" she said, "but if you will take me to a place of shelter, I will remunerate you some way."
"Sorry to be obliged to refuse, ma'am," said the man, civilly enough, "but I'm a poor man, with a family, and can't afford to keep my horses for nothing."
"What is it, driver?" queried a rough voice; but in a moment a crowd had gathered around poor, shrinking Margie, and growling, indignant Leo.
"The woman's lost her purse—"
"Oh, ho! the old story—eh? Beauty in distress. Should think they'd git tired of playing that game!" said the coarse voice, which belonged to a lounger and hanger-on at the depot.