“That must be very nice. I suppose an alderman is some sort of a very high-up man, isn’t he? But—”
“High is it, says she. Higher ’an I was when I was carryin’ me hod up wan thim ‘sky-scrapers’ they do build in this forsaken—I mane blessed—counthry, says he. Sure it’s a higher-up Bryan is, the foine lad.”
“Please, please, will you take me to the ‘Mary Powell’?”
“How can I since ye’ve not told me yet wherever she lives?”
“Why she isn’t a—she! She’s a boat!”
“Hear til the lass! She isn’t a she isn’t she? Then she must be a he, and that’d beat a priest to explain;” and at his own joke the newly-fledged officer indulged in a most unofficial burst of laughter. So long and so loud was this that Dorothy stamped her foot impatiently and another uniformed member of “the force,” passing by on the other side of the street, crossed over to investigate.
At whose arrival officer Larry straightened himself like a ramrod, squared his shoulders, and affected to be intensely angry with the small person who had delayed him upon his beat. But he could not deceive the keen eyes of the more experienced policeman and his superior in rank.
With a swift recognition of the newcomer’s greater intelligence, Dorothy put her inquiry to him, breathlessly stating her whole case, including the loss of her purse and her regret over it.
“’Cause now, you see, sir, I haven’t any money to pay for being taken back. Else I would have called a carriage, like people do sometimes, and got the carriage man to take me. That is, if there was any carriage, and any man, and I—I had any money. Oh! dear! That isn’t what I wanted to say, but I’m so tired running and—and—it’s dreadful to be lost in a New York city!”
Her explanation ended in a miserable breakdown of sobs and tears. Now that help had come—she was sure of it after one glance into this second officer’s honest face—her courage collapsed entirely. The sergeant allowed her a moment to compose herself and then said, as he took out a notebook and prepared to write in it: