“He no bus’ness with your flowers, then!” said Dorr, crowding back an angry whimper.
“I’ve a mind to shake you!” said Trudie. But, instead, she went to the fence where the little bow-legged mulatto, still howling, was trying to get free.
“Little boy,” said she, “I’m sorry; but it is wrong to steal!”
“But we done got no flowers of our own,” said he; “and besides, I hain’t broke it. O, dear, where’s mammy? I hain’t gooine to stay hyer—don’t! don’t!” He howled louder than ever as Trudie took his arm.
“Hush up, simpleton! I’m only going to get you out.” With a firm grasp she turned his arm where he might draw it back. “There, I’ll let you out now, if you will stand still a moment after I let go.”
The boy sobbed mightily, but stood still. “Stand there till I tell you to go,” commanded Trudie. Then she broke one of her own flowers for him, and also went into her pocket. “Hold your hand, now,” said she.
Sobbing, and with hidden face, the small ragamuffin held up his hand, and Trudie poured into it a stream of pennies and candies. “The flower,” said she, “is because you like pretty things. The rest is to pay you for being struck.”
The tawny little hand dashed the “pay” to the ground. “I can’t be paid for being struck!” he cried, baring his tearful eyes, and gleaming with them at the “sergeant.”
“What’s all this?” asked mamma, coming down the walk.
