“She didn’t mean—” he began.
“All right,” said the circus man. “You can stay, old bottle woman,” he turned to her. “I’ve got something more to do than to hang around here to straighten out a fuss when there don’t seem to be none.”
“Mister,” said the old woman, as he was slouching off, “that boy didn’t ’xactly throw my bottle, not ’xactly—”
He laughed and snapped his fingers at her, and now he was gone for good.
“Why, there’s Mamsie—and the others,” cried Ben, looking off to a middle row of seats, where Polly was standing up and beckoning with all her might. “Come, they’ve found our places.”
“I’m sure I don’t know where my seat is,” said the old woman helplessly, and she began to fumble in her black silk bag, “th’ man give me somethin’ an’—”
Joel was dashing off to the others, but thinking better of it, turned back. “I’ll find it for you,” he cried, “give me the bag,” and not waiting for permission, he seized it and getting down on his knees, he emptied it of all its contents on the grass.
It was all done before Ben could do more than cry, “Joel!”
The old woman sank down on her knees beside Joel, as he pawed among the collection of articles spread on the grass. Strange to say she seemed more curious to see if he would find it than disturbed at the way her bag was emptied.
“Here ’tis!” he held it up joyfully.