Yes, I, too, thought it was warm. Indeed, I broke into a perspiration whenever I thought of the molasses cake with the doll in it.
“Why, true as you live, if there isn’t the Collector of the Port himself coming here,” exclaimed Mrs. Simonsen. “He’s even coming into the shop, I declare! Go away from the steps, child.”
Yes, it was really the old Collector himself, with his keen face, his bent back and his cap with broad gold braid on it. He stopped beside the steps, stuck his cane between the pavingstones and looked up at Mrs. Simonsen in the doorway.
“Is this Mrs. Simonsen who sells molasses cakes?”
Mrs. Simonsen curtsied.
“Yes, your honor,” she answered, respectfully.
The old wooden steps creaked under the Collector’s heavy tread. Now he was in the shop. I peeped in at the door.
“May I then ask you, my good woman,” continued the Collector, “what you call this?”
He searched in one vest pocket, searched a long time,—searched in the other vest pocket; then oh! wonder of wonders! Between his crooked thumb and big pointer finger, he held high in the air my little china doll!
The instant I saw it, I was awfully, awfully glad, for now I knew that no one had swallowed it, that it wasn’t lying in any one’s stomach causing pain if not death.