“What's wrong, honey?” asked an old woman of Nan, whose seat on the embankment brought her just on a level with the window.
“There's—there's a cow on the track,” answered Nan, with a big sigh between the two “there's,” as if her little heart had been quite overburdened.
“And de engineer saw it in time to stop de train? Tank de Lord!” ejaculated the old woman.
“No, no, he didn't; we stopped the train,” Nan answered, proudly; “the engineer couldn't see the cow at all from here.”
“Bress my heart! how did yer do it, chile?”
“Why, with my flannel skirt,” Nan explained. She had not noticed that others in the car were listening to their conversation, but at this remark a coarse derisive laugh made her realise that a dozen pair of eyes were upon her. It proved too much for her overstrung nerves. She burst into tears and threw herself flat upon the grass, burying her face in her hands.
“Ye'd all oughter be ashamed o' ye'selves,” said the old mammy, turning indignantly upon the fellow-passengers, though as much mystified as any of them by Nan's reply to her question.
Meanwhile the cow had been pulled from the track, and Regie and Harry were naturally much elated by the earnest commendation of the passengers who stood about them. “Look here,” said one of them, evidently a farmer, “seems to me we ought to do something for these little people; who knows but some of us might have been in Kingdom Come but for them.”
“That's so,” answered another passenger, “but what can yer do more'n thank 'em? they look like gentlefolks' children. I reckon they wouldn't take money for doing a kind turn.”
“Well, I guess not,” said Regie, who had overheard the last remark.