“Yes, I can come. Shall I bring Clarence, too?”
“Sure. All the kids. But Clarence especially,—he’s my son, you know.” Billy grinned.
“And just worships you. Is your lawn mowed?”
“No; I’ll do it first thing to-morrow.” He tried vainly to change the subject. “I—”
“Oh, Billy To-morrow! You won’t have half time enough to play. You’re a regular Mexican,—always mañana!”
When the train snorted into the station the two were there, Billy with his loaf under his arm, his can dangling. Most of the arrivals were townsfolk home from visits to the stricken city; but a few, evidently strangers, descended and stood by themselves.
“That bunch with the tickets, them’s the refugees,” Billy whispered to Jean. “See? Mr. Patton’s talking to them. Mr. Brown’s going to take ’em to their places in his hack. I wonder which is ours. Jiminy! See how hard that poor little kid’s trying to bluff her tears!”
He indicated a fair-haired child, a baby in size, though her face gave hint of more years than her slender body. She wore woman’s shoes, and one was torn; a draggled skirt pinned up in front and trailing behind; and a folded sheet drawn around her shoulders. Yet no incongruity of dress could disguise the refined beauty of her face, or of her uncovered hair.
A kindly man held her by the hand, yet he was evidently a stranger to her.
“Billy, ask Mr. Patton to let her come to your house! There aren’t any boys.” Jean’s voice trembled with eagerness.