The hall was dark and rather smelly. In the days of Washington it had been spacious and beautiful, but it could scarcely be called so now. Dirt streaked the walls; odds and ends of broken furniture cluttered the door. Four doors opened out of the hall, all of which were closed, and Cavvy hesitated doubtfully at the foot of the graceful, curving, battered staircase.
Then from above, punctuating the stillness, came faintly the sound of suppressed panting. Cavvy took the stairs at a run, McBride following at his heels. An instant later he paused on the threshold of a room so different from anything he had expected that he was fairly speechless with surprise.
It was long and low, with three windows, two looking out on the street. The glass in them was clear and unbroken; instinctively he realized that these must be Micky’s “two whole windows” of that morning. The woodwork shone immaculate in its creamy whiteness; the floor was clean. A table and a few chairs were ranged against the wall. There were other things, but just now Cavvy had no eye for detail.
From the wall above the white mantel—aloof, majestic, a touch of kindliness about the eyes, a hint of world-weariness in the tight-lipped mouth—looked down the face of Stuart’s Washington. Below the picture, startled, defiant, a little afraid, stood the Tallerico kid, the rescued flag still clutched tightly in his arm.
As recognition dawned, his tense expression faded. His eyes softened, and with a long, relieved sigh his lips parted in a flashing smile.
“Oh!” he said. “It’s—it’s you!”
Cavvy gulped.
“Yes, it’s us,” he answered, oblivious of grammar. “We thought you might need some help, but—” He broke off and moved swiftly toward the boy. “It was great—simply great!” he exclaimed a little incoherently. “We got there late and were away on the outside. When that—that beast grabbed the flag, I—I—”
“I heard you,” said Tallerico simply. “It—it helped.”
Cavvy stared. “Helped?”