I felt of it. Wuzzy’s eyes followed my hand with a trance-like intentness and he emitted a low sound of approval.
At that moment, as though fate pitied our helplessness, the trap flew back and a section of red face filled the aperture.
“Is it straight down the avenue I’m to go, Mrs. Ferguson?” came a cheerful bass. “You ain’t told me.”
Wuzzy looked, flinched, his pink face puckered and a cry of mortal fear burst from him. He clutched us with his mitts and wrenched himself to a sitting posture, then, determined to shut out the horrible vision, leaned as far over the door as he could and forgot all about it. Betty gave directions and we sped along into the line of carriages by Sherman’s statue. We had to wait there, and a policeman with gesticulating arms and a whistle caught Wuzzy’s attention. He waved a friendly mitt at him, muttering low comments to himself. His mother patted his little hunched-up back and took up the broken thread:
“What was I saying? Oh, yes—if I could get some one who would hunt up such cases as Miss Harris’ and report them to me I’d pay them a good salary. Those are the people one never hears about, unless in some accidental way like this.”
The policeman whistled and we moved forward. I began to feel uncomfortable. I’d never before told Betty half a story. She went on:
“Of course there’s charity on a large scale, organized and all that. But the hundreds of decent people who get into dreadful positions and are too proud to ask for aid, are the ones I’d like to help. Especially girls, good, hard-working, honest girls.”
In my embarrassment I fingered Wuzzy’s ear-rosette. He resented the familiarity and angrily brushed my hand away.
“Oh, do let him alone,” said his mother. “You can’t tell how he’ll break out if he gets cross—and I know Miss Harris is all that, in spite of her hat and her looks, or you wouldn’t be so friendly with her.”
“Charity given to her is charity given where it’s needed,” I muttered with a red face.