Probably the excitement of his adventure had had a good effect upon Revitts; for the strange fit of petulance and obstinacy had passed away, and he was all eagerness and smiles.
“Why, what a gal you are, Polly!” he exclaimed. “Don’t cry, my lass; I was obliged to go off. Pleecemen ain’t their own masters.”
“Oh, Bill dear,” sobbed Mary, “and I’ve been thinking sich things.”
“Of course you have, Polly,” he said; “and I’ve been wishing myself at home, but I knew Ant’ny would take care of you. Poor little lass! I’ve had a nice job, I can tell you. I say, Ant’ny, is she quite right in her head?”
“Oh yes,” I said.
“Well, she don’t look it then, poor little woman. One minute she was begging and praying me to take her home, the next she was scolding me for interfering. Then she’d be quiet for a few minutes, and then she’d want to jump out of the cab; and it’s my belief that if I’d let her go, she’d have throwed herself into the river.”
“Poor soul?” murmured Mary.
“Then she’d take a fit of not wanting to go home, saying that she daren’t never go there any more, and that I wasn’t to take her home, but to you, Ant’ny; and that sorter thing’s been going on all the time, till she seemed to be quite worn out, and I was so puzzled as to what to do, that I thought I would bring her on here, and let Mary do what she thought best.”
“Did you think that, Bill?” said Mary eagerly.
“Of course I did. I don’t understand women-folk, and I hate having jobs that puts ’em in my care. ‘Mary’ll settle it all right,’ I says, ‘and know what’s best to be done.’”