So Carlota slipped the treat of jam-spread cake into the botany-box slung across her shoulders, adding to it the slices of bread and cheese she could not then enjoy, and explaining:
“Maybe I’ll be hungrier, by and by, Mrs. Burnham, so I’ll put this aside in my ‘box-of-all-work,’ as my father calls it.”
By this time all the self-glory of Dennis Fogarty had been dried up by the tear upon the cheek of his beloved “little lady.” He, as well as Teddy, had seen that, and at the sight he forgot everything save her unhappiness.
“Sure, ’tis past time for that brother o’ hers to be showin’ himself. I thought, says I, maybe they’d had a little scrap an’ he’d soon come along to patch up the breach. But no, says he. When he’s mad he stays mad, says he—if mad it is! I’ll have a word with her the now an’ see if aught is I can do to cheer her belike.”
With that he pulled from his pocket a brilliant cotton handkerchief, fresh from the pack of a peddler upon a passing train. He had purchased it on a day soon after this pilgrimage was decided and when his ambition to become a Mexican horseman was yet young. The handkerchief represented a Spanish bull fight and, in its general effect, was red enough to have served as “flag” in its own combat. At some opportune moment, Dennis had intended to produce it with dazzling flourish, for the amazement of his companions. He now resolved upon a kindlier use. Unobserved by Carlota, he begged of Mrs. Burnham a half-loaf of bread and the greater luxury of a tiny pat of butter. Scooping a hole in the crust of the loaf he bestowed within it the butter, replaced the crust he had removed, and carefully wrapped the whole in the gaudy napkin. Then he thrust the parcel into the breast of his jacket and rejoined Carlota. The absent lad might now appear at any moment and his inevitable hunger was thus provided against.
“I s’pose there’s never a know ye know where he’ll pop out of, since there’s no spot in sight would hide Hop-o’-my-thumb, barrin’ a well grown lad like your own. But sure, Miss Carlota, ’tis time he was shimmerin’ back. He’s that light o’ foot as I never saw an’ ’tis pinin’ I be for a sight of his own merry face.”
Now wily Dennis knew that the way to force her confidence was to give her a bit of a heartache; and he, like the Burnhams, felt that the time for secrecy was past. She looked up into his face and at sight of its sympathy her courage gave way.
“Oh, Dennis! What do you suppose has happened to him?”
“I could tell that better if I knew what he went for to do.”
With a last rally of her bravery, she replied: