Dale seemed so very old and very wise that the tiny girl listened to his verdict with blanching face. He knew, of course.
"Where d'you live?" demanded Dale. "Why, you're just a baby! Anybody with you?"
The child pointed rather uncertainly to one of the intersecting streets.
"I come that way," she said, then, even while saying it, began to wonder if that were the way she had come. The streets all looked so much alike. She had run along the curb, so as to be as far away as possible from the dark alley ways and the doors. And it had been a long way.
Her lip quivered though she would not cry. After Cynthia's fate, just to be lost herself did not matter.
"Well, don't you know where you live? What's the street? I'll take you home."
"22 Patchin Place," lisped the child.
Dale hesitated a moment to make sure of his bearings. "Well, then, come along. I know where that is. And you forget 'bout your Cynthia. You've got another doll, haven't you? If you haven't, you just ask Santa Claus for one. Why, say, kiddo, what's this? You lame?" For the little girl skipped jerkily at his side.
"That's just the way I'm made," the child answered, quite indifferent to the shocked note in the boy's voice. "I can walk and run, but I go crooked."
"What's your name?"