“Let us go at once.”
“Shure I didn’t know you cared so much for the boy,” said Mrs. O’Keefe, with a shrewd look at Florence’s anxious face.
“Why shouldn’t I care for him? He is my only friend.”
“Is he now? And what’s the matter wid Bridget O’Keefe?” asked the apple-woman.
“Excuse me, Mrs. O’Keefe. I know very well you are my friend, and a kind friend, too. I should not have forgotten you.”
“It’s all right, Florence. You’re flustrated like, and that’s why you forget me.”
“I have so few friends that I can’t spare one,” continued Florence.
“That’s so. Come along wid me, and we’ll see what Tim has to tell us.”
A short walk brought the two strangely assorted companions to the entrance of Tim Bolton’s saloon. “I’m afraid to go in, Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Florence.
“Come along wid me, my dear, I won’t let anything harm you. You ain’t used to such a place, but I’ve been here more than once to fill the growler. Be careful as you go down the steps, Florence.”