“But, no. The hack has disappeared, the bundle of sewing with it—if such there was. But you’ll not go seek it. I will send Ephraim and with sufficient money in hand to pay for all possible injuries. Now, call him and let’s have done with this unpleasant Nestor-Briggs affair.”
Jessica obeyed, uttering no further protest. Indeed, if dear old “Forty-niner” were to take the matter in hand it would be promptly and well done. Fortunately, too, it happened that scenting a possible future customer, the hackman had early in their time of waiting given Mr. Marsh his carriage number and the address at which he might usually be found. Thither Ephraim departed, and shouldering the bundle himself, reappeared at 221 Avenue A, just as the old lady and her grandchild were sitting down to eat that last half-loaf, with gloomy faces and all too vigorous appetites.
When Ephraim tapped at the rickety door and Sophy opened it, to see him standing there with the lost bundle of blue denim on his shoulders, she screamed with delight and, catching his hand, dragged him within.
“Why, why hold on, there, Sissy! I just come to fetch this back, that was forgot, and to say in the name of Madam Dalrymple, my ‘Little Captain’s’ present guardeen, as how she’d be glad to make good for that accident of Buster’s and the succeeding troubles, and to fetch this here little dress of Miss Jessica’s that she promised Sissy, yonder. Mrs. Trent made it with her own hands and my ‘Captain’ wore it a Christmas Day.”
With considerable reluctance, Ephraim was unrolling the little parcel and displaying the charming contents. As he did so he could not refrain from one glance at poor Sophy’s misshapen back and his wonderment as to the garment’s fit. It actually grieved him to think of anything the beloved mistress of Sobrante had handled being bestowed in this dingy abode where even he could detect and shudder at the “poor smell.”
Nor was he at all prepared for the ready hospitality of the old grandmother, who, while her grandchild was rapturously fondling and examining the gift, all unconscious of the disparaging look the sharpshooter had given her, quietly pushed Sophy’s chair back to the bare table and said:
“We’re just eating our suppers, Mr.—”
“Marsh, ma’am, Ephraim Marsh, once of Californy, late of New York, and originally hailing from Concord, in the good old State of New Hampshire.”
He pronounced it “Cawnco’d,” and he gave to his r’s the peculiar pronunciation which appealed to Granny Briggs’s old heart as his offer of money had not done.
“Marsh? Of Concord? Why, bless you, man, I was born there! I myself!”