Polly moved slowly toward the door. The cheerful-looking nurse did not think it was worth while to take the trouble of looking up Ruth Carter’s case in the hospital records just to satisfy a child. She had something she wanted very much more to do, and so she let Polly out of the great building with a pleasant, encouraging smile. The newsboy came whistling around the corner as soon as the little girl appeared upon the outer steps.
“Everything O.K.?” he enquired.
Polly shook her head.
“O, I say, nothin’ ’s wrong with the sick lady, is there?”
Polly nodded.
“She ain’t—gone?”
Again Polly nodded.
“Well, I’m—I’m sorry! I say, you’re hard hit and that’s a fact! Come—cry if you want to. Never mind me! It’ll do you good, p’raps. Even a feller’d be let cry if—if—his folks at the ’ospittle was—gone.”
But Polly did not cry. She was too stunned. The newsboy joined her and they walked slowly and silently down the street. At last Polly spoke:
“I—don’t quite know—what I’d better do,” she said drearily. “I haven’t any place to go and I haven’t any money.”