“Well, then, let me speak to the lady who went in, and I’ll take you home at once.”
He shuffled uneasily.
“If you please, marm, I can’t go till I’ve been back to Meg’s, and carried her this board.”
“But I’ll get a policeman to send a messenger with that. If you go, perhaps she won’t let you come to me.”
“Yes, marm, I shall come. But you wouldn’t believe me, sure, if I could steal away, like, and never say good-by to Mag, and let her cry both her eyes out thinking I’d been shut up, or somebody had killed me.” And his own great blue eyes grew pathetic again over this picture of sorrowful possibilities.
“Well, you may go,” I said, half reluctantly, for the little vagabond had inspired in me a singular interest. “You may go, and be sure you come to-night or in the morning, to 70 Deerham Street, and ask for Miss May.”
He looked at me with a grave, resolved look.
“I shall come,” he said; and in an instant he was gone.
That night, after dinner, I told Tom. He was mocking, incredulous, reluctant—just as I knew he would be. But it all ended in his promising to try “My Vagrant,” if he ever came.