“What’s the taxes?”
“The—what?” asked the policeman, in turn.
“The taxes, the cost, the price of that there carriage?”
“Probably a dollar or two. Depends on where the girl lives and how long it takes. Say, Sis, I’ve seen you around here before. You’ve been careless more’n once and a cripple like you’d better take no chances.”
For reply the flower-seller made a saucy face and stooped to gather up her scattered posies, critically calculating the damage done to them and the consequent loss to her. She had recovered from her brief unconsciousness and as Jessica also began to collect the daffodils and tulips, exclaiming with delight over their beauty, her business instinct came to the fore.
“Five cents a bunch, miss. Only five cents!”
Yet it was almost mechanically she spoke, for all her hearing was strained to learn the outcome of that carriage-discussion; and regardless of further injury to her blossoms, she clapped her thin hands in delight, as Ephraim settled it by saying:
“Call it up, officer! I reckon we can stand that much. No, you needn’t worry about the broncho. I’ll lead him and follow the carriage. But you’ll have to give the orders—This old New York of yours sets a plainsman plumb crazy!”
The officer found no cause for delay. He had made a few entries in his note book. The hunchback was not injured, she didn’t need a carriage, but if these wild Westerners fancied that she did and were able to pay for it, that was their business.
When the summoned hack drew up to the curbstone, whither the two girls had retreated when the crowd dispersed, the flower-seller’s pale face really glowed almost as pink as Jessica’s own, and her ill-shod feet danced on the stones, as she cried: