Emma wheeled around, and the binoculars fell from her hands. Sally moved with extended palms to catch them.
“Oh, it’s you!” Emma’s voice was pleased and birdlike. “They don’t drop, Miss Ferguson. Mr. Bucks told me you was on vacation. Did you have a nice time, dearie?” She reached toward the long leather thong which held the binoculars around her scrawny neck and then embarrassment replaced pleasure.
“What are you doing?”
“Well, I tell you, dearie. Whin I can’t git inta th’ offices on six ri-away, I jes’ comes here for a little while and takes in the city ... kinda. It helps a lot, sometimes, for bein’ lonesum, Miss Ferguson.”
The news-story instinct welled up. Sally eased down into a window sill. Perhaps, if you shifted the mind completely....
“Where did you get them?”
“Well, dearie, it’s like this: My boy ... you know ... what was killed at the Argonah, had ’em.” Emma’s lower jaw dropped. “His buddy ... my boy had got ’em off’n a dead German General, and you kno’ what fine things Germans makes ... well, his buddy took ’em off’n my boy’s body after ... and brought ’em back to me. And, Miss Ferguson, he seys whin he give ’em to me, he seys, ‘These is t’gif ye a chancst t’see life.’
“Ain’t that sweet, dearie? And they’se bin the greates’ consterashun thu m’sorrow. Whin I gits t’thinkin’ ’bout my boy and wishin’ f’ gran’chillrin ... you kno’ ... I jes’ comes up here and takes in a few lifes.”
A swell newspaper story! “Vicarious living,” Sally muttered.
Emma, heard it and protested: