“Full particulars?” Perhaps not quite full.
When the engine rattled away, with the crowd after it, Pet had come timidly down the steps. Bridget had been borne away by the crowd, and was not to be found.
“Where are you?” she called. “I do not know your name—oh-h!” She stopped with a pitiful little cry.
Bridget was crouched in a miserable heap just around the corner. She was stroking her bruised foot with trembling hands, and crying softly to herself. Somehow she felt like the kitten, only she had no one to go to; and her head was so dizzy!
Then she looked up, and saw the white shawl and the ostrich feather and Pet’s eyes. And once more Pet forgot the difference.
A policeman found them there a few minutes later. Pet had her arms around the faded shawl, and Bridget’s tously little head was lying wearily against her shoulder. The poor trampled foot was bound up in somebody’s embroidered handkerchief.
Pet did not give the officer time to speak. She was on her own ground now.
“Will you call a hack or a herdic, please? This girl is sick.”
The tone was quiet, but plainly said it was accustomed to giving directions, and having them obeyed, too.
The policeman had approached with a rough joke on his tongue’s end, but it turned into a respectful “Yes’m, certainly.”