Polly followed him in relief, when suddenly the door opened and a little old lady literally blew in. She stamped her feet as though it were snow instead of sand that clung to her, and disengaged her head from the thick white veil in which she had wrapped it.
“Mein Gott, it is old lady Morgan, herself,” said Swartz, nudging Polly, pleasantly.
“What’s that? Somebody wanting me?” replied the lady, still occupied with the veil. “Where’s that tea I told you to send me this morning, Swartz? A fine thing to make me come out in all this for a pound of tea, just because I’ve nobody to send and two sick children on my hands! What? Oh, I can’t hear you! Who d’you say wants me?”
She was a thin, bent old lady with straggly gray hair and a very sharp penetrating voice. Polly felt the lump in her throat growing larger. Was this the jolly pretty Mrs. Jack Morgan that Bob had written about so often?
“Dis young voman——” began Swartz, heavily.
Polly stepped forward.
“Mrs. Morgan, this is Bob Street’s sister. He has often written us about you and your husband.”
“Husband? She ain’t got no husband,” interrupted Mr. Swartz, heatedly. “Ain’t I told you dis iss de old lady—Jack Morgan’s mother?”
“I’m a little hard of hearing, my dear. Who did you say you were?” asked Jack Morgan’s mother, patiently.
Polly repeated her explanation, adding a few more particulars, all as loudly as possible. They had now an interested audience of Mexicans and Indians, male and female, old and young, who found the scene none the less attractive because they did not understand it.