“That’s fine!” declared Polly, tossing back her hair from her rosy cheeks. “Well, now, come on for another spin.”
They had almost reached Mr. Beebe’s little shop when an old lady coming out of a shop opposite beckoned violently with her black satin parasol. The long fringe waved back and forth as she shook the parasol with an air of command.
“It is Miss Parrott,” said Polly in an awe-struck voice. “You go in to Mr. Beebe’s shop and I’ll run across to her.”
Davie, quite glad to escape and especially into dear Mr. Beebe’s shoe-shop, hurried over the cobble-stones, while Polly flew across the street. His foot was on the step, when a voice said: “Bring the boy—he’s the one I want to see.”
“You will have to come, Davie,” said Polly, hurrying back.
“Oh, I can’t,” said Davie, crowding up against the shoe-shop door; “don’t make me, Polly.” He turned a distressed little face as she hurried up.
“Yes, you must,” said Polly. “Mamsie would say so.”
“Would Mamsie say so?” cried Davie, hanging to the big knocker. “Would she really, Polly?”
“Yes,” said Polly, “she would. Come on, Davie,” and she held out her hand. So together they went across the narrow little street, David hanging back on lagging footsteps.
Miss Parrott’s big coach was around the corner. There she stood now, waiting for them.