“I hope so,” he replied, heartily.
“We shall see,” and she upraised one slim brown hand, “perhaps, oh, perhaps and possibly, but still, I trust, truly, we shall see this our city one of the best governed in America.”
“Oh, I hope so,” returned Tom, with a kind of groan.
“Don’t doubt it,” continued the girl. “Who lives will see. I tell you, Tom, the women are desperate. The River Street houses are growing older and older. What woman can endure seeing her children die, and know that they are poisoned out of existence? I tell you, Tom, the men have got to do something or emigrate.”
“They’ll not emigrate,” said Tom, shortly, “and upon my word,” and he looked round about him, “I don’t know but what I’d be willing to live on River Street myself, to help reform it.”
Berty was silent for a long time, then she said, in a low voice, “You will not regret that speech, Tom Everest.”
“All right, little girl,” he replied, cheerfully, and jumping up from his low seat. “Now I must get back to work. Come, Mugwump, I guess your missis will let you have a walk, even if she won’t go herself.”
The lawless dog, without glancing at Berty for permission, bounded to his side and licked his hand.
“You haven’t very good manners, dog,” said Tom, lightly, “but I guess your mistress likes you.”
“I always did like the bad ones best,” said Berty, wistfully. “It seems as if they had more need of friends—good-bye, Tom.”