"Oh, you need not tell me that, if I but knew how," said Mary, trembling with eagerness. "But you say right,—I never was here before, and I don't know my way to the place you speak on; only tell me, and I'll not lose a minute."
"Mother!" said the wilful lad, "I'm going to show her the way to the pier; I'll be back in an hour,—or so,—" he added in a lower tone.
And before the gentle Mrs. Jones could collect her scattered wits sufficiently to understand half of the hastily formed plan, her son was scudding down the street, closely followed by Mary's half-running steps.
Presently he slackened his pace sufficiently to enable him to enter into conversation with Mary, for once escaped from the reach of his mother's recalling voice, he thought he might venture to indulge his curiosity.
"Ahem!—What's your name? It's so awkward to be calling you young woman."
"My name is Mary,—Mary Barton," answered she, anxious to propitiate one who seemed so willing to exert himself in her behalf, or else she grudged every word which caused the slightest relaxation in her speed, although her chest seemed tightened, and her head throbbing, from the rate at which they were walking.
"And you want Will Wilson to prove an alibi—is that it?"
"Yes—oh, yes—can we not cross now?"
"No, wait a minute; it's the teagle hoisting above your head I'm afraid of;—and who is it that's to be tried?"
"Jem; oh, lad! can't we get past?"