“How do you do?” answered Polly.
“I'm in a devil of a mess, thank you; send that chicken up stairs, and come in and hear about it,” he said, as if he had been longing to tell some one, and welcomed prudent Polly as a special providence.
“Go up, deary, and amuse yourself with this book, and these ginger snaps that I made for you, there's a good child,” whispered Polly, as Maud rubbed away her tears, and stared at Tom with round, inquisitive eyes.
“You'll tell me all about it, by and by, won't you?” she whispered, preparing to obey.
“If I may,” answered Polly.
Maud departed with unexpected docility, and Polly went into the dining-room, where Tom was wandering about in a restless way. If he had been “raging like a bear,” Polly would n't have cared, she was so pleased that he wanted her, and so glad to be a confidante, as she used to be in the happy old days, that she would joyfully have faced a much more formidable person than reckless Tom.
“Now, then, what is it?” she said, coming straight to the point.
“Guess.”
“You've killed your horse racing.”
“Worse than that.”