"Say, ain't he a go-getter?" cried Johnnie eagerly. "Clay's sure one straight-up son-of-a-gun. You'd ought to 'a' seen how he busted New York open to find you."
"Did he?"
Johnnie told the story of the search with special emphasis on the night
Clay broke into three houses in answer to her advertisement.
"I never wrote it. I never thought of that. It must have been—"
"It was that scalawag Durand, y'betcha. I ain't still wearin' my pinfeathers none. Tha's who it was. I'm not liable to forget him. He knocked me hell-west and silly whilst I wasn't lookin'. He was sore because Clay had fixed his clock proper."
"So you've fought on account of me too. I'm sorry." There was a little break in her voice. "I s'pose you hate me for—for bein' the way I am. I know I hate myself." She choked on the food she was eating.
Johnnie, much distressed, put down the coffee-pot and fluttered near.
"Don't you take on, ma'am. I wisht I could tell you how pleased we-all
are to he'p you. I hope you'll stay with us right along. I sure do.
You'd be right welcome," he concluded bashfully.
"I've got no place to go, except back home—and I've got no folks there but a second cousin. She doesn't want me. I don't know what to do. If I had a woman friend—some one to tell me what was best—"
Johnnie slapped his hand on his knee, struck by a sudden inspiration. "Say! Y'betcha, by jollies, I've got 'er—the very one! You're damn—you're sure whistlin'. We got a lady friend, Clay and me, the finest little pilgrim in New York. She's sure there when the gong strikes. You'd love her. I'll fix it for you—right away. I got to go to her house this afternoon an' do some chores. I'll bet she comes right over to see you."
Kitty was doubtful. She did not want to take any strange young women into her confidence until she had seen them. More than one good Pharisee had burned her face with a look of scornful contempt in the past weeks.