“Your father has gone to look up your trunk and get out another suit for you,” continued Paul, catching his breath.
“Good! But, oh dear, how can he open the trunk without the key? The key was in my pocket!”
But the key was not needed; the baggage was not on that train.
A moment later, Mr. Rowe appeared at the section, carrying on his arm a pair of checked blue-and-white overalls.
“Well, Kirke, I’ve done my best for you,” said he cheerily. “I’ve bought these of a brakeman. By rolling up the hems, I think you can manage to wear them.”
“Oh, those are a bonanza, Kirke.”
It was his mother’s voice at the boy’s elbow. “And I’ve brought you other things to put on. We’ll leave you now to dress. Be as quick as you can.”
As the train ran into the New York station, a rough-looking lad emerged from the curtains clad in a brakeman’s overalls turned up at the hem, Molly’s ulster, Mrs. Rowe’s overshoes, and Captain Bradstreet’s smoking-cap.
“O Kirke, you look like”—Mrs. Rowe cut short Weezy’s comparison by a warning glance.
“Like a California freak, Weezy. Why, I knew that; did it on purpose,” retorted Kirke, assuming an air of bravado.