“I think he belongs up at Greenacres, please, Mr. Briggs,” she said quickly. “I know Father and Mother will take him up there if he hasn’t any place to go, and we’ll look after him. I’m sure of it. He can drive back with us.”
“But you don’t know where he came from nor anything about him, Miss Robbins. I tell you he’s just a little tramp. You can see that, or he wouldn’t be hitching on to freight trains. That ain’t no way to do if you’re decent God-fearing folks, riding the bumpers and dodging train-men.”
“Let me take him home with me now, anyway,” pleaded Jean. “We can find out about him later. It’s Christmas Friday, you know, Mr. Briggs.”
There was no resisting the appeal that underlay her words and Mr. Briggs capitulated gracefully, albeit he opined the county school was the proper receptacle for all such human rubbish.
Jean laughed at him happily, as he stood warming himself by the big drum stove, his feet wide apart, his hands thrust into his blue coat pockets.
“It’s your own doings, Miss Robbins,” he returned dubiously. “I wouldn’t stand in your way so long as you see fit to take him along. But he’s just human rubbish. Want to go, Joe?”
And Joe, knight of the bumpers, rose, wiping his eyes with his coat sleeve, and glared resentfully back at Mr. Briggs. At Jean’s word, he shouldered the smaller package and carted it up to the waiting carriage while Mr. Briggs leisurely came behind with the wooden box.
“Guess you’ll have to sit on that box in the back, Joe,” Jean said. “We’re going down to the store, and then home. Sit tight.” She gathered up the reins. “Thank you ever and ever so much, Mr. Briggs.”
It was queer, Mr. Briggs said afterwards, but nobody could be expected to resist the smile of a Robbins. He swung off his cap in salute, watching the carriage spin down the hill, over the long mill bridge and into the village with the figure of Joe perched behind on the Christmas box.