The grocer’s young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on his collar button behind.
“That’s out o’ sight, Kid,” said he.
“My name is Celia, if you please,” said the whistler, dazzling him with a three-inch smile.
“That’s all right. I’m Thomas McLeod. What part of the house do you work in?”
“I’m the—the second parlor maid.”
“Do you know the ‘Falling Waters’?”
“No,” said Celia, “we don’t know anybody. We got rich too quick—that is, Mr. Spraggins did.”
“I’ll make you acquainted,” said Thomas McLeod. “It’s a strathspey—the first cousin to a hornpipe.”
If Celia’s whistling put the piccolos out of commission, Thomas McLeod’s surely made the biggest flutes hunt their holes. He could actually whistle bass.
When he stopped Celia was ready to jump into his delivery wagon and ride with him clear to the end of the pier and on to the ferry-boat of the Charon line.