"I will," said Tinker, and he bolted for the hotel.
Elsie walked up and down, trying to feel brave, but the odd shapes which the bushes assumed in the dim light daunted her not a little, and she strove to drive away the fancy that she saw people lurking among them. Tinker was gone a bare seven minutes; but to the timid child it seemed a very long while, and she welcomed his return with a gasp of relief.
He wore a smart, close-fitting brown racing overcoat, which reached to his ankles; and for her he brought his fur-lined ulster.
"Here I am," he said cheerfully. "Get into this," and he held out the ulster.
She put her arms into the sleeves, and he drew it around her and buttoned it up.
"You are a kind boy," she said, with a little break in her voice. A sudden strong but inexplicable impulse moved Tinker; he bent forward and kissed her on the lips.
While you might count a score the children stood quite still, staring at one another with eyes luminous in the starlight. Elsie's face was one pink flush, and Tinker was scarlet.
"That—that was a very funny kiss," she said in a curious voice.
"Oh, what's a kiss?" said Tinker, with forced bravado, consumed with boyish shame for the lapse.
"I—I—liked it," said Elsie. "No one has kissed me since father died." And her breath seemed to catch.