After the funeral, Thurley and her father had retired within the box-car wagon to “grieve proper,” Ali Baba summarized, and every one left them alone, except Dan Birge, junior, who promptly knocked at the wreck of a door.
Ali Baba tried to stop him, although it was nearing four o’clock, sacred hour for Miss Clergy’s drive.
“Hi, you—ain’t you no reverence?” he demanded. “There’s been death in that—that household.”
“I got business with her,” Dan retorted, knocking more boldly.
“You don’t own this town any more’n I do. You come down off that step, you upstart.”
“Chase yourself—I got to speak to Thurley.” Dan made a tantalizing face. “You don’t dare touch me—you ghost coachman—aha—aha—” Thurley opened the door just in time to allow Dan to make good his escape.
Within, he stood back, abashed and silent.
“What is it, Dan?” she asked mournfully. “If it’s the money you gave me—it’s gone. I’m sorry, but Pa needed ‘comfort’ for the burial.”
“Oh, that’s nothing—he got the ‘comfort’ at my pa’s store, so it’s back in the till. I wanted to say I was sorry and we won’t have the circus until you’re feeling fit.”
Thurley’s eyes filled with tears. “Your mother’s dead, too, ain’t she?” she asked.