“I can’t make head nor tail of it at all,” said the young man. Then he put on his cap, since scratching his head did no good. “Well, your sister’s lost, you say?”
“Yes,” said Davie, hanging to the wheel. “Oh, have you seen her, Mr. Man? She had on a pink dress—”
“Hey? Oh, thunder an’ lightnin’!” he slapped his knee, with a red hand, “was she a little gal?”
“Yes—yes,” cried Davie, with wide blue eyes. “Oh, have you seen her, Mr. Man?”
“I think likely,” said the young man, bending over till his face nearly touched Davie’s hot cheek, “an’ then again, mebbe I hain’t. I’ve seen a little gal in a pink dress, but she may not be your sister. How big was she?”
Davie released his clutch on the wheel, to bend down and measure where Phronsie’s head would come if she stood there in the road before him, the young man leaning out to critically watch the proceeding.
“I b’lieve as sure as shootin’, that’s th’ little gal.” Then he whistled and slapped his knee again.
“Oh, Mr. Man, help me to find her!” Davie grasped the wheel once more and held on for dear life.
“Well, I can’t as long as you hang on to that ’ere wheel,” said the young man. “Now you hop in, and I’ll catch up with that young one in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Over the wheel went Davie, to sink down in a small heap on the old leather seat.