Michael fidgetted. The whistling of his comrades had already put another aspect on the matter. So long as there were no boys in sight to play with, he felt that it would be some fun to play with even a girl; especially one who was so frank and ready as she whom he had seen in Mr. Smith’s doorway. But now the boys were back. They’d likely laugh and call him “sissy” if he bothered with Josephine, and what fellow likes to be “sissied,” I’d wish to know!
Josephine felt the change in his manner, and realized that there was need for haste, yet, fortunately, nothing deeper than that. It never occurred to her that she could be in anybody’s way, and she returned to the library very promptly, her red hat thrust coquettishly on one side of her head, and her coat flying apart as she ran. She was so pretty and so eager that the red-headed boy began to feel ashamed of himself, and remembered what his grandmother often told him: that it was the mark of a gentleman to be courteous to women. He was a gentleman, of course. All his forefathers had been, down in their ancient home in Virginia, which seemed to be considered a little finer portion of the United States than could be found elsewhere. Let the boys jeer, if they wanted to. He was in for it and couldn’t back out. So he walked up to Josephine who was giving Uncle Joe a parting kiss, and remarked:
“I’ll button your coat. But put your hat on straight. It won’t stay a minute that way, and when I’m drawing you, I can’t stop all the time to be picking it up. Where’s your gloves? Forgot ’em? Never mind. Here’s my mittens. Ready? Come on, then. Good morning, Mr. Smith. I’ll take good care of her and fetch her back all right.”
He seized Josephine’s hand, lifted his cap, dropped it over his red hair, and darted from the house.
A group of lads, his mates, had congregated before the house, recognizing his sled upon the steps, and wondering what could have sent him into that forbidding mansion. They were ready with questions and demands the instant he should appear, but paused, open-mouthed, when he did actually step out on the marble, leading Josephine. He was not “a Virginian and a gentleman” for nothing. Instinct guided his first words:
“Hello, boys! This is Josephine Smith, from San Diego, California. She’s never seen snow before, worth mentioning, and I’m going to give her a sleighride. Her first one. S’pose we make it a four-in-hand, and something worth while? What say?”
“Will she be afraid?” asked one of them.
“Are you a ’fraid-cat, Josephine?” demanded Michael, sternly, in a don’t-you-dare-to-say-you-are kind of voice, and the little Californian rose to the occasion gallantly.
“No, I am not. I’m not afraid of anything or anybody—here.”
“Come on, then.”