“Henrietta Haney—Hen,” admonished Jessie, with what severity the occasion permitted. “Do stop making so much noise, my dear. Why, everybody is looking at us.”
“Well,” said this surprising child, “I shouldn’t mind their lookin’, if I was you, Miss Jessie. Ma Foley always says no amount of lookin’ ever hurt no one.”
Jessie shot a helpless look at her chum, who was convulsed with mirth. Little Henrietta Haney, who had first introduced herself to the Radio Girls as a little waif from Dogtown—a down-at-heel district encroaching upon Roselawn—in search of her missing cousin, Bertha Blair, had since figured largely in their adventures. Owing to the interest of Mr. Norwood and Mr. Drew—both lawyers—the little girl had recently come into possession of part of Station Island. Henrietta, or “Hen,” as she was familiarly called, was inordinately proud of her inheritance and seldom overlooked an opportunity to make reference to “her island.”
Now Jessie and Amy moved the child to a less conspicuous spot and questioned her concerning her presence there.
“You surely did not come to New Melford all alone, Hen,” said Jessie, in concern, for she really would not have been greatly surprised at anything the wild child might do. “Isn’t somebody with you?”
“Well, Bertha come with me,” said the child, complacently; “but I left her.”
“You what?” gasped Amy.
“I left her,” repeated Hen, patiently. “We was comin’ along, and all of a sudden I looks over and sees you and Miss Jessie and I just run through the crowd and left Bertha. I didn’t knock over more than one person, either,” she finished proudly. “And he was a little fat boy it didn’t hurt none.”
“It only goes to show there is good in everything, even fat,” cried Amy, in a strangled voice, and even Jessie had to smile.
“And you haven’t the least idea where Bertha is now?” questioned Jessie, searching the passing crowds for a familiar face.