Feargus O’Connor, the only one of their steamer friends whom they had missed on the way up to London,—chiefly because he had traveled third class and hidden himself away,—now approached.
“How may I help the ladies?” he asked.
“My dear Mr. O’Connor, you are as welcome as the flowers in spring,” the little lady cried. “I am afraid to trust my girls out of my sight for a minute in this enormous city for fear they might be kidnapped, and I simply cannot face those luggage people myself.”
“Let me be your guide, counsellor and friend, then,” said Feargus. “First, let’s get the luggage business straightened, and then I’ll see you safe to your cab, or your hotel, if you wish.”
“We are going into lodgings,” cried the Motor Maids in unison.
It seemed to the four young girls at that time that life could not offer a more romantic experience than lodgings in London. The rooms had been engaged long ago, and the landlady notified from Liverpool to have the supper prepared and all things ready. It was to be a chapter out of Dickens. They did not mind the wet sheet of rain that blew in their faces, nor the glimmering mud puddles. The cries of the cab-men were music to their ears. A lonely little boy in the station reminded them of David Copperfield. The cockney accent was a strange new language to them, and the throngs of travelers in rough ulsters and fore-and-aft caps filled them with the most profound interest.
At last the luggage, collected and identified, was piled on top of a hackney coach and the bags stored inside with Miss Campbell, Elinor and Mary. Billie and Nancy were in a hansom waiting just behind.
“Thank you a thousand times; you’re a nice boy,” said Miss Campbell, giving her hand to Feargus. “I hope you’ll come and see us while we are in London.”
Feargus was about to reply when a splendid carriage with footman and coachman on the box slowly approached. Just as it came opposite the two cabs, a child’s voice called:
“Feargus, Billie, please don’t forget me,” and little Arthur, leaning from the window, waved his cap at them. Inside were his three “keepers,” as Billie called them, who took not the slightest notice of the Americans or the young Irishman.