The boys lingered at a safe distance, and as Zelda drove past them at the corner, several of them snatched off their caps and grinned, and Olive Merriam called good night to them.
As Zelda followed the route indicated by her cousin, she was busy trying to find a lost strand of family history that proved elusive. She did not at all remember her mother’s brother, Thomas Merriam. She had never heard her aunt or uncle speak of the relationship, and she surmised, now that she thought of it, that here must be another of those breaks in the family connection that had already revealed ragged edges. It was growing late, and she put Zan to her best paces, until presently they came out upon a broad paved thoroughfare which offered an open course to Jefferson Street.
“That’s better,” said Zelda. “I’m sure I should never have found the way out alone. I don’t believe I was ever down there before.”
“Probably not. It isn’t considered highly fashionable.”
“It looks interesting, though,” said Zelda, remembering that this girl spent her days there at the school-house in the slums. “And I liked the boys.”
“I like them,” said Olive. “But I don’t get a chance at them. I have girls only. I teach—” she laughed in a cheery way that warmed Zelda’s heart—“I teach what they call domestic science.”
“That sounds very serious.”
“But it isn’t; it’s just cooking!”
“Cooking!” The runabout grazed the fender of a trolley car while the motorman stared and swore as he pounded his gong. They were crossing Jefferson Street where High intersects it. The traffic was always congested here at this hour, and the crowd and noise caused Zan to prick up her ears and toss her head. A stalwart policeman stationed in the middle of the street dodged in an undignified fashion and waved his club after them threateningly.
“You may let me out here anywhere,” said Olive, “and I’ll take the car.”