"Wonder if there's any more belonging to him of the same sort?" inquired a third.
Leaving all the sarcasm behind him, Old Hurricane handed his protégée into the cab, took the seat beside her and gave orders to be driven out toward Harlem.
As soon as they were seated in the cab the old man turned to his charge and said:
"Capitola, I shall have to trust to your girl's wit to get yourself into your proper clothes again without exciting further notice."
"Yes, governor."
"My boy—girl, I mean—I am not the governor of Virginia, though if every one had his rights I don't know but I should be. However, I am only Major Warfield," said the old man, naively, for he had not the most distant idea that the title bestowed on him by Capitola was a mere remnant of her newsboys "slang."
"Now, my lad—pshaw! my lass, I mean—how shall we get you metamorphosed again?"
"I know, gov—major, I mean. There is a shop of ready-made clothing at the Needle Woman's Aid, corner of the next square. I can get out there and buy a full suit."
"Very well. Stop at the next corner, driver," called Old Hurricane.
The next minute the cab drew up before a warehouse of ready-made garments.