THE door of the gray car swung open and out stepped the driver. As Connie, her parents, and Mrs. McGuire hurried up, he was peering at the numbers marked on the curb in front of the McGuire house.
“Aren’t you the man who carried away a little girl on her sled?” asked Connie before he could speak.
“That’s right,” admitted the driver. Politely, he tipped his hat to Connie’s mother and Mrs. McGuire.
“Tell me quickly,” urged Mrs. McGuire. “Has my daughter been injured?”
Just then, the rear door of the sedan swung wide. Veve, her face streaked with tears, had been asleep on the back seat. She stumbled out looking drowsy-eyed, but very much alive and ashamed.
“Hello, Mother,” she said. “Here I am!”
Mrs. McGuire ran down the sidewalk to clasp Veve in her arms. She was so happy to see her that she did not say a word about all the trouble that had been caused.
The car driver told Mr. Williams his name was Fred Clayhorn and that he was a drug salesman.
“Hope you haven’t worried too much about this little scamp,” he said, smiling at Veve. “I didn’t discover she had hitched her sled to my car until I was miles out in the country.”
“A filling-station man saw me and yelled for Mr. Clayhorn to stop,” explained Veve.