"Say!" It was an ejaculation of pity, but there was a note of triumph in it, too; perhaps the joy of the gratified philanthropist.
"Now, look-a-here, little girl, the price of that picture will just about cover your expenses, eh?—board and—er—funeral?"
Sheila nodded, her throat working, her lids pressing down tears.
"Well, now, look-a-here. I've got a missus at home."
Sheila looked up and the tears fell. She brushed them from her cheeks.
"A missus?"
"Yes'm—my wife. And a couple of gels about your age. Well, say, we've got a job for you."
Sheila put her hand to her head as though she would stop a whirling sensation there.
"You mean you have some work for me in your home?"
"You've got it first time. Yes, ma'am. Sure thing. At Millings, finest city in the world. After you're through here, you pack up your duds and you come West with me. Make a fresh start, eh? Why, it'll make me plumb cheerful to have a gel with me on that journey … seem like I'd Girlie or Babe along. They just cried to come, but, say, Noo York's no place for the young."
"But, Mr. Hudson, my ticket? I'm sure I won't have the money—?"