“Dead? Crape?” Captain Cy gasped. “What in the world put that in your head?”
“Well, I didn't know but maybe that was why you thought I hadn't ought to have rung it. When mamma was sick they didn't let people ring our bell. And when she died they tied it up with crape.”
“Did, hey? Hum!” The captain scratched his chin and gazed at the small figure before him. It was a self-poised, matter-of-fact figure for such a little one, and, out there in the rain under the tent roof of the umbrella, it was rather pitiful.
“Please, sir,” said the child, “are you Captain Cyrus Whittaker?”
“Yup! That's me. You've guessed it the first time.”
“Yes, sir. I've got a letter for you. It's pinned inside my dress. If you could hold this umbrella maybe I could get it out.”
She extended the big umbrella at arm's length, holding it with both hands. Captain Cy woke up.
“Good land!” he exclaimed, “what am I thinkin' of? You're soakin' wet through, ain't you?”
“I guess I'm pretty wet. It's a long ways from the depot, and I tried to come across the fields, because a boy said it was nearer, and the bushes were—”
“Across the FIELDS? Have you walked all the way from the depot?”