"Not she. 'Tis a beautiful 'bus, and, maybe, she'll carry me and mine"—he glanced at her now pensive face—"to fame and fortune."
With this hope animating his heart and voice, Alfred spoke at length, and with impressive deliberation, mapping out a golden future. Already he had made arrangements to transport passengers to Salisbury, likely boys and girls anxious to attend the High School. He predicted an ever-increasing traffic and the almost immediate necessity of running two 'buses and engaging an assistant.
"Maybe such a job would suit a young woman I know, Miss Fancy Broomfield."
Fancy hastened to assure him that such ambitions soared high above her disabilities. Alfred continued, waxing very eloquent, letting loose amazing phrases, setting forth prospects which must please and allure his listener, talking at her so persistently that Fancy became frightened.
"Alfred," she said, entreatingly, "don't make so sure of things."
"'Tis in my hand."
"I mind poor Father's plans, and that makes me nervous when you race on so."
"What about his plans?"
"He'd a nice business, shoeing the carriage horses of the quality. He never did fancy rough work. But it went to bits, when motoring came in. That lay back of his poor health. We never know what'll happen."
"I say we do. God Almighty helps them as helps themselves. I'm helping myself to a large spoonful, but I can down it, and more too."