“Thank you,” said Davie, “but I think I ought to find the little girl,” saying which he struck into the crowd, and began his search.
It was several hours afterwards that a boy who was very tired, and who, if he had not been so disappointed, would have been hungry, came out of the handsome book store and with slow steps started for his long walk home. He had delivered the medicine for which he came in the first place; he had the note for the doctor safe in his pocket; he had picked up a little German girl, and after much trouble given her back to a father who was angry at him about it; he had followed a little girl, or rather followed the road over which she vanished, for two weary hours, and at last found her and restored the lost parcel, only to hear her laugh gleefully and declare that there was nothing in it but some dried-up sandwiches, which he was welcome to if he wanted them. And not a glimpse of procession, or sound of martial music or voice of public speaker had he seen or heard that day, save the few strains in the distance which had lured him in the morning.
Moreover, he had called at the book store only to have the proprietor shake his head and say: “Of course, my boy, I couldn’t engage you for such a place as this without references. For whom do you work when you are at home?”
Davie explained that they had been but a short time in that part of the country; he had no regular place, but did odd jobs for Dr. Bristol—cleaned out the stable and such things. No, Dr. Bristol did not know much about him—nobody did but mother—and he had not known that a recommendation would be needed.
“I might just as well have staid at home and helped mother,” said Davie, as he walked slowly, with head down. “I’ve lost a day, and gained nothing at all. I wish I had—no, I don’t either. I did what I thought was right. I’m glad I did it.” Whereupon Davie whistled.
“Who was that boy, father, and what did he want?” A young man asked the question of the bookseller as he came back to his parlor; he liked the looks of the boy.
“Do you know anything about him?” replied the father, and before he could answer a bright-faced little girl chimed in: “O, Uncle Edward! what is his name? Don’t you know? I’m so sorry if you don’t; papa wants to know it.”
“No, sir,” said the young man; “I don’t know him; but he is the chap I was telling you about who wandered around with that little German girl, and took patiently a hard scolding from the father afterwards, and a laugh from two well-dressed, thoughtless boys.”
“Is he, indeed?” said the father; “I wish I had known it.”
Then the little girl: “And O, Uncle Edward! don’t you think he is the very same boy who hunted after me for two hours to give me those sandwiches. Papa said I was a little dunce not to ask his name; that he ought to be rewarded for honesty and faithfulness.”