“To the trestle beyond Simpson’s. Hurry up. Step on.”
For only answer, Timothy immediately swung Glory up to the little platform car, depositing Bonny Angel beside her with equal speed, then made room for himself among the surprised trackmen already grouped there. Yet beyond another astonished “Hello!” no comment was made and the hand-car bumped forward again toward its destination.
However, it wasn’t Timothy Dowd’s habit to be silent when he could find anything to say, so he was presently explaining in his loud-voiced, jolly way that here was a “pair o’ angels that he’d found floating round in the mud and was goin’ to bestow ’em where they’d do the most good. An’ that’s to Mary Fogarty’s, indeed. Her of the sharp tongue an’ warm heart an’ houseful of creatures, every blessed one of that same rippin’ off buttons that constant, an’ her livin’ the very pattern of handiness to Simpson’s trestle an’ couldn’t have been planned no better not if—Hi, baby, how goes it?”
This to Bonny Angel, whose eyes had shone with delight when first the car had rolled forward, but who now grew frightened and began to whimper dismally, which set Glory’s own heart beating sorrowfully and spoiled her pleasure in this novel ride. Springing up she would have taken Bonny Angel from Timothy’s arms into her own had he not rudely pushed her down again, commanding sternly:
“Try that no more, colleen, lest ye’d be after murderin’ the pair of us! Sit flat, sit flat, girl, an’ cut no monkey-shines with nobody, a-ridin’ on a hand-car.”
Glory had not thought of danger, though her new friend had not over-rated it. In obedience to this unexpected sternness, she crouched motionless beside him, though she firmly clutched at Bonny’s skirts and began to think this her hardest experience yet, till after a time, at sight of a gamboling squirrel, the little one forgot her fear and laughed out gleefully. Then Glory laughed, too, for already her tiny “Guardian” could influence every mood, so dearly had she grown to love the child thus thrown upon her care.
How the fences and the fields raced by! How the birds sang and the flowers bloomed! And how very, very soon the queer little car stopped short at a skeleton bridge over a noisy creek! There all the workmen leaped to the ground and hastily prepared for labor. Even Timothy had no further time to talk but coolly setting the children upon a bank pointed to a house across the fields and ordered Glory, “Go there an’ tell your story, an’ tell Mary Fogarty I sent ye.”
Then he fell to his own tasks and Take-a-Stitch had no choice save obedience.
For a little distance, there was fascination in the meadow for both small wanderers; but soon Bonny Angel’s feet lagged and she put up her arms with that mute pleading to be carried which Glory could not resist, yet the little creature soon grew intolerably heavy, and her face buried beneath her nurse’s chin seemed to burn into the flesh, the blue eyes closed, the whole plump little body settled limp and inert, and a swift alarm shot through the other’s heart.
“Oh, oh, I believe she’s sick! Do ‘Angels’ ever get sick? But she isn’t a truly ‘Angel,’ I know now. She’s just somebody’s lost baby. Queer! Grandpa so old an’ she so young should both of ’em get lost to onct, an’ only me to look out for ’em! Yet, maybe, that Mary Fogarty woman’ll help us out. I hope she’ll be like Meg-Laundress, or darlin’ Posy Jane. Strange, how long these fields are. Longer’n the longest avenue there is an’ not one single house the hull length. Why ain’t there houses, I wonder. Wake up, Bonny precious! We’re almost there.”