“It's the same kid, Bill! The one I told you of!”
True as truth were the ragged coat dangling from the pitiful body, the little blue hands, the thin shoulders, the stringy hair, the big arctics on the feet. And in the road not far off was the curious chest of dark wood with iron hasps.
“She ran under the car deliberate!” cried Bill. “I yelled to her, but she looked at me and ran straight on!”
He was white in spite of his weather-beaten skin.
“I guess you wasn't drunk last night after all, John,” said he.
“You—you are sure the kid is—is there?” gasped John.
“Not so damned sure!” said Bill.
But a few minutes later it was taken away in a patrol wagon, and with it the little box with iron hasps.