She turned to put more water in the coffee urn.
“Have you the morning papers?” asked the newcomer.
His voice made her start. She turned and faced—Mr. Armstrong!
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to unwrap the papers,” she said, blushing furiously. “Isn’t this dreadful, Mr. Armstrong?”
“Surprising, I’m sure,” he replied, smiling. “You have more than your hands full.”
Dorothy tried to explain, but her confusion was now more than excitement—it was akin to collapse.
“Perhaps I could help you,” suggested her friend of the bridge-bound train. “I am not in a hurry. Mother is on ahead, and I can wait for the next accommodation.”
“Oh, if you only would! I cannot find anything more to eat,” and she brushed back her hair, in lieu of rolling up her sleeves.
“You can’t go in there,” growled one of the train men. “There’s a dog that don’t like dudes.”
Another toot, and the men rushed off, half emptied cups in hand, sandwiches in pocket, and the rack of pastry left empty, inside the counter, where it had fallen as the last pie was grabbed from its wires.