“Yes, I’ll write,” Lucy promised. “But you mustn’t worry about me. I’m not going to get discouraged again, no matter what happens.” The train was coming to a snorting halt and Peggy had time for just one more word.
“Good-by, Jerry. Don’t forget.”
The girls scrambled aboard, followed by a chorus of good-byes. “What’s this? Old Home week?” asked an interested old gentleman, dropping his newspaper and crossing the aisle, to get a better view of the crowd on the platform. And, meanwhile, Amy was tugging at the window, crying excitedly, “Oh, help me, quick, Peggy, or it’ll be too late.”
The window yielded to the girls’ combined persuasion. Amy’s camera appeared in the opening, and a little click sounded just as the train began to move. “Oh, I hope it’ll be good,” cried Amy, whose successes and failures had been so evenly balanced that her attitude toward each new effort was one of hopeful uncertainty. “It would be so nice to have something to remember them by.” But Peggy, looking back on the station platform, was sure that she needed no aid to remembrance, Amy’s camera might be out of focus, and the plate blurred and indistinct, as so often happened, but the picture of those upturned, friendly faces was printed upon Peggy’s heart, a lasting possession.
“Well, old man!” It was Jack Rynson speaking over Graham’s shoulder. “Guess we might as well start. Come on, Hobo–beg pardon, Hero.” And the dog who had whimperingly watched the train which bore Peggy out of sight, only restrained by Jack’s hand on his collar from rushing in pursuit, yielded to the inevitable, and followed his new master with the curious loyalty which does not change, no matter how often its object changes.
The people were breaking up into groups of twos and threes, and moving away, but Lucy Haines and Jerry stood motionless, their gaze following the vanishing speck which was the south-bound train. Then slowly Lucy’s head turned. She had never been friendly with Jerry Morton. She had shared the disapproval of the community, intensified by her inherent inability to understand the temperament so unlike her own. Yet all at once she found herself feeling responsible for him. To be helped means an obligation to help, at least to unselfish natures.
She went toward Jerry half reluctantly. But when she was near enough to see that he was swallowing hard, apparently in the effort to remove some obstruction in his throat which would not “down,” the discovery seemed to create a bond between them. Her voice was eager and sympathetic as she said: “It’s fine that you’re going to start school again, Jerry. And if I can help you with anything, I’ll be glad to.” She hesitated, and then, in spite of her natural reserve, she added: “We mustn’t disappoint her, either of us.”
Jerry had to swallow yet again before he could reply. But his answer rang out with a manful sincerity which would have gladdened Peggy’s heart had she heard it.
“Disappoint her! Not on your life!”