“For Heaven's sake!” he muttered, calamity's approach intensifying his abjurgations. “There's the old man!”
Apprehensively, abasedly, but with legs still stolidly apart, Missy looked up. Yes, there was Mr. Picker, elbowing his way through the crowd. Then an icy trickle chilled her spine; following Mr. Picker, carrying his noon mail, was Rev. MacGill.
“Here!—What's this?” demanded Mr. Picker.
Then she heard Arthur, that craven-hearted, traitor-souled being she had once called “friend,” that she had even desired to impress,—she heard him saying:
“I don't know, Mr. Picker. She just came riding in—”
Mr. Picker strode to the centre of the stage and, by a simple expedient strangely unthought-of before—by merely pulling away the bucket, separated Gypsy from the candy.
Then he turned to Missy and eyed her disapprovingly.
“I think you'd better be taking the back cut home. If I was your mamma, I'd give you a good spanking and put you to bed.”
Spanking! Oh, shades of insouciance and swagger! And with Rev. MacGill standing there hearing—and seeing! Tears rolled down over her blushes.
“Here, I'll help you get her out,” said Rev. MacGill, kindly. Missy blessed him for his kindness, yet, just then, she felt she'd rather have been stung to death than to have had him there. But he was there, and he led Gypsy, quite tractable now the candy was gone, and herself looking actually embarrassed, through the crowd and back to the street.