“Boy, bring that handkerchief here, it belongs to me,” shouted a commanding voice from the carriage ahead—and at the sound of it the tears in Miss Beattison’s eyes stood still—a frozen cataract.
“The lady wants it, sir; she says it is hers,” protested the boy.
“Oh, madame, slay that boy,” said Miss Beattison in a fierce little whisper.
“The lady is mistaken, bring that handkerchief here at once.”
“But it is a lady’s handkerchief, sir,” urged the boy.
“Bring it here at once, you little devil, or I’ll break your neck.”
Coarse words these, and oh how impolite to the other claimants, and yet sweeter far to the straining ears of the offended one than the softest music!
But the boy was “dour” in the face of ugly words or threats, and he held out the handkerchief to the lady at the window.
“No, no, give it to the gentleman,” said madame, and after a moment’s hesitation the boy threw the handkerchief into the carriage where Dalrymple was standing.
Dalrymple endeavored to reward the boy by throwing him a shilling, but the threat was not forgotten and the boy who came of a fighting stock threw the coin back into the carriage.