As if understanding him, she murmured, “You had good feed when you was a kid. I was stuffed from swill cans, and treated to tasty bits from the dumps.”
A shudder ran over my master. “Don’t you write no country name,” she said with feeble wrath. “I’ll not leave this little old New York agin.”
“It’s ’way down town,” he said shortly, as he handed her the card, “and here’s car fare. Mind, no drink on the way.”
“I’m too beat out,” she said, struggling to her feet. “I’ve heard of you. You’re the odd fellow that runs that place for the likes of us, an’ ain’t too partickler about rules. I’ll go in, for I’ve wanted to get in, but didn’t know how, and I’ll stay till I die, and go to nobody knows where. That’ll be soon, an’ you kin have him”—and she nodded toward the child.
Master turned to leave her. “Stop,” she said in her husky voice, “I’m goin’ to wish somethin’ on you.” Then she looked up at the moon. “He ain’t got a kid of his own,” she said softly, “I know by the look in his eyes. Send him one, Mrs. Moon, you’re the only mother I know.”
As if afraid he would thank her, she held her child tight to her, and shuffled off toward Broadway.
Master stared after her for a long time, then he muttered, “That’s the second time I’ve been blessed to-night. Queer, isn’t it, dog?—Now, as that child must have a warm welcome at the laundry, let’s go telephone before we get home. We don’t want our right hand to know too much about the left hand.”