Sam had dreamed of creatures like Annie Brooke. He had believed that it was possible for some girls to look like that, but he had never been close to one of these adorable creatures before in the whole course of his life. His silly head swam; his round eyes became rounder than ever with admiration, and even his loud voice became hushed.
“Who be she?” he said, plucking at Tilda’s sleeve, and his own great, rough voice shaking.
“A friend o’ our’n,” said Tilda, who, not being so susceptible, felt her head very tightly screwed on her shoulders, and was not going to give herself away on Annie’s account. “A friend o’ our’n,” she continued, “a gel whose acquaintance we made in the country. She’s a-comin’ along ’ome with Martha and me; so you look after our trunks, Sam, and we’ll go on to the underground as quick as possible. Don’t stare yer eyes out, Sam, for goodness’ sake! She won’t bolt, beauty though she be.”
“Oh! I can’t go with you; I really can’t,” said Annie. “There must be a hotel close to this, and I have plenty, plenty of money. Perhaps this—this—gentleman would take me to the hotel.”
She looked appealingly at Sam, who would have died for her there and then.
“I wull—if yer wish, miss,” he stammered.
“Nothing of the kind,” said Tilda, who, having secured Annie, had no intention of letting her go. A girl with plenty of money who was running away was a treasure not to be found every day in the week. “You’ll come with us, miss, or that letter ’ull be writ to Mrs Dawson afore we goes to bed to-night.”
“Oh yes,” said Sam, wondering more and more what could have happened. “We’ll take the greatest care o’ yer, miss.”
“Her name’s Annie; you needn’t ‘miss’ her,” said Tilda, turning sharply to her brother. “Now then, do get our bits o’ duds, and be quick, can’t you?”
The bewildered young man did see to his sister’s and friend’s luggage. He had already secured Annie’s bag, and he held it reverently, feeling certain that it belonged to one of a superior class. Why, the little, neat bag alone was something to reverence.