“And so am I,” she said, “and yet I don’t even know whom to thank, though you evidently know me. You seemed to come from the ground, and you handled the car as if it were your own.”
With a sudden exclamation the man stepped to the ground; then he turned and faced her, hat in hand.
“And I’m acting now as if it were my own, too,” he said, almost bitterly. “I beg your pardon, Miss Kendall. I have run it many times for Mr. Spencer; that explains my familiarity with it.”
“And you are——” she paused expectantly.
The man hesitated. It was almost on his tongue’s end to say, “One of the mill-hands”; then something in the bright face, the pleasant smile, the half-outstretched hand, sent a strange light to his eyes.
“I am—Miss Kendall, I have half a mind to tell you who I am.”
She threw a quick look into his face and drew back a little; but she said graciously:
“Of course you will tell me who you are.”
There was a moment’s silence, then slowly he asked:
“Do you remember—Bobby McGinnis?”