Pete shrugged his shoulders. “Mister Temple, he owns th’ buildin’ an’ he hed it cleared out, ’n’ now he leaves them Red Cross ladies use it fer ter make bandages ’n’ phwat all, ’n’ collect money fer their campaign. He’s a ghrand man, Mister Temple. Would ye gimme a lift wid this here table, now, while ye’re here, Tommy?”
As they carried the table across the sidewalk, a group of ladies came down the block and whom should Tom see among them but Mrs. Temple and her daughter Mary. As he looked at Mary (whom he used to tease and call “stuck up”) he realized that he was not the only person in Bridgeboro who had been growing up, for she was quite a young lady, and very pretty besides.
“Why, Thomas, how do you do!” said Mrs. Temple. “I heard you were back——”
“And you never came to see us,” interrupted Mary.
“I only got back Tuesday,” said Tom, a little flustered.
He told them briefly of his trip and when the little chat was over Pete Connigan had disappeared.
“I wonder if you wouldn’t be willing to move one or two things for us?” Mrs. Temple asked. “Have you time? I meant to ask the truckman, but——”
“He may be too old to be a scout any more, but he’s not too old to do a good turn,” teased Mary.
They entered the store where the marks of the departed store fixtures were visible along the walls and Schmitt’s old counter stood against one side. Piles of Red Cross literature now lay upon it. Upon a rough makeshift table were boxes full of yarn (destined to keep many a long needle busy) and the place was full of the signs of its temporary occupancy.
“If I hadn’t joined the Red Cross already, I’d join now,” said Tom, apologetically, displaying his button. “A girl in our office got me to join.”