"Certainly, ma'am; you said 97?" said Bertha, as grimly as before to the boarding-house keeper, but determined that that girl should go right, even if the car stopped an hour.
And when they came to 97, Bertha handed her down, and led her to the door, and pealed at the bell as if she had been a princess. "Oh, I thank you so!" said the poor, shrinking girl. "And please tell me when your car goes back. I will be all ready."
This, as Bertha says to this hour, was the greatest compliment of her life.
They came home light, for it was in that dead hour before the theatres and concerts are pouring out their thousands. Bertha did not forget 97 Van Tromp Street, and her poor little ewe-lamb was waiting at the door as the great car stopped itself, uncalled. As they approached Sprigg Court there was but one passenger left,—a poor tired newspaper man, going out to Station 11 to see who had cut his throat in that precinct, or what child had been run over.
"Far as we go," said Bertha, in her gruffest voice.
And the poor fellow, who was asleep, tumbled out, not knowing where he was, and unable, of course, to express his surprise.
CHAPTER V.
REGULAR WORK.
When they were once home, both of them were too much excited and quite too tired to think of a second round trip, even to catch the theatres. Glad enough were they to shut the paint-shop. Bertha held the lantern while Max rubbed down the horses and put them up for the night. Then she disappeared in the harness-room, re-appeared in her own character in a time incredibly short, and ran into the house at once to see how the baby was.