“There,” sez Martin, actin’ impatient and mad as anything—“there is another text for you, Cousin Samantha; and probably the whole car full of people, who have rode all over the city for five cents, will all join in and shriek at me as a murderer and a villain, because a couple of fools have started to cross the track just in front of a car; in nine cases out of ten the fault is their own.”
But the cries outside grew louder and louder, and finally Martin went to the winder, kinder flingin’ himself along in a sort of a impatient way; and he had been nagged considerable—I had to admit it.
He went to the winder, which looked down onto the broad street below. He looked a minute; then shriekin’ out—
“My God! my God!”
He fell down jest like a log at my feet.
He fell down jest like a log at my feet.
And what wuz the sight that struck him down like a arrer?
Two men of the very deputation that had jest left the house wuz bearin’ between ’em the crushed form of a little boy—gold curls wuz hangin’ back from the velvet cap. A kind hand had covered the little disfiggered face with a handkerchief. Behind, two more of the men and a policeman wuz carryin’ the crushed, senseless form of Alice.
I hearn all about it afterwards. There wuz a florist jest acrost from Martin’s, where a little bend in the road made it impossible to stop. Little Adrian had jumped out of the carriage and run to choose a bokay of flowers to gin to me. They wuz the English voyalets he loved so well. One of ’em wuz in the buttonhole of the little velvet coat.