Hesba Stretton - The Ultimate Christmas Library - 100+ Authors, 200 Novels, Novellas, Stories, Poems and Carols

“Jingo! Look at Pop!” exclaimed the crippled boy, who seemed not to have been hurt at all in the accident.

Mr. Ravell Bulson was trying to struggle out from under the cab. And to his credit he was not thinking of himself at this time.

“How’s Junior?” he gasped. “Are you hurt, Junior?”

“No, Pop, I ain’t hurt,” said the boy with the braces. “But, Jingo! you do look funny.”

“I don’t feel so funny,” snarled his parent, finally extricating himself unaided from the tangle. “Sure you’re not hurt, Junior?”

“No, I’m not hurt,” repeated the boy. “Nor Buster ain’t hurt. And see this girl, Pop. Buster knows her.”

Mr. Ravell Bulson just then obtained a clear view of Nan Sherwood, against whom the little dog was crazily leaping. The man scowled and in his usual harsh manner exclaimed:

“Call the dog away, Junior. If you’re not hurt we’ll get another cab and go on.”

“Why, Pop!” cried the lame boy, quite excitedly. “That pup likes her a whole lot. See him? Say, girl, did you used to own that puppy?”

“No, indeed, dear,” said Nan, laughing. “But he remembers me.”

“From where?” demanded the curious Ravell Bulson, Jr.

“Why, since the time we were snow-bound in a train together.”

“Oh! when was that?” burst out the boy. “Tell me about it snow-bound in a steam-car train? That must have been jolly.”

“Come away, Junior!” exclaimed his father. “You don’t care anything about that, I’m sure.”

“Oh, yes I do, Pop. I want to hear about it. Fancy being snow-bound in a steam-car train!”

“Come away, I tell you,” said the fat man, again scowling crossly at Nan. “You don’t want to hear anything that girl can tell you. Come away, now,” he added, for a crowd was gathering.

“Do wait a minute, Pop,” said Junior. The lame boy evidently was used to being indulged, and he saw no reason for leaving Nan abruptly. “See the dog. See Buster, will you? Why, he’s just in love with this girl.”

“I tell you to come on!” complained Mr. Bulson, Senior. He was really a slave to the crippled boy’s whims; but he disliked being near Nan Sherwood, or seeing Junior so friendly with her. “You can’t know that girl, if the dog does,” he snarled.

“Why, yes I can, Pop,” said the lame boy, with cheerful insistence. “And I want to hear about her being snowed up in a train with Buster.”

“Your father can tell you all about it,” Nan said, kindly, not wishing to make Mr. Bulson any angrier. “He was there in the snowed-up train, too. That’s how I came to be acquainted with your little dog. He was with your father on the train.”

“Why, Pop!” cried the eager boy. “You never told me a word about it. And you must know this girl.”

Mr. Ravell Bulson only grunted and scowled.

“What’s your name, girl?” cried the boy, curiously.

“I am Nan Sherwood,” the girl said, kissing him and then giving him a gentle push toward his father’s outstretched and impatient hand. “If I don’t see you again I shall often think of you. Be good to Buster.”

“You must tell me about being snowed up, Pop,” urged little Junior, as Nan turned away. “And I like that girl.”

“That isn’t much to tell— and I don’t like her— nor any of her name,” snapped Mr. Bulson.

“But you’ll tell me about the snowed-up train?”

“Yes, yes!” cried his father, impatiently, anxious to get his lame son away from Nan’s vicinity. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

Nan was quite sure that the fat man would be ashamed to give his little son the full particulars of his own experience on the stalled train. The little chap, despite his affliction, was an attractive child and seemed to have inherited none of his father’s unhappy disposition.

“Good bye, Nan Sherwood!” he cried after the girl. “Come, Buster! Come, Buster! My, Pop! Buster likes that girl!”

“Well, I don’t,” declared the fat man, still scowling at Nan.

“Don’t you?” cried Junior. “That’s funny. I like her, and Buster likes her, and you don’t, Pop. I hope I’ll see you again, Nan Sherwood.”

His father almost dragged him away, the spaniel, on a leash, cavorting about the lame boy. Nan was amazed by the difference in the behavior of Mr. Bulson and his afflicted son.

“And won’t he be surprised when he learns that it wasn’t Papa Sherwood, after all, but that wicked negro porter, who stole his wallet and watch?” Nan mused. “I hope they find the man and punish him. But— it really does seem as though Mr. Bulson ought to be punished, too, for making my father so much trouble.”

Later “Nosey” Thompson was captured; but he had spent all Mr. Bulson’s money in a drunken spree, and while intoxicated had been robbed of the watch. So, in the end, the quarrelsome fat man, who had so maligned Mr. Sherwood and caused him so much trouble, recovered nothing— not even his lost temper.

“Which must be a good thing,” was Bess Harley’s comment. “For if I had a temper like his, I’d want to lose it— and for good and all!”

“But there must be some good in that fat man,” Nan said, reflectively.

“Humph! Now find some excuse for him , Nan Sherwood!” said her chum.

“No. Not an excuse. He maligned Papa Sherwood and I can’t forgive him. But his little boy thinks the world of him, I can see; and Mr. Bulson is very fond of the little boy— ’Junior,’ as he calls him.”

“Well,” quoth Bess, “so does a tiger-cat love its kittens. He’s a gouty, grumpy old fellow, with an in-growing grouch. I couldn’t see a mite of good in him with a spyglass.”

Her chum laughed heartily at that statement. “Well, let us hope he will keep so far away from us after this that we will have to use a spyglass to see him at all.”

“And there’s another person who can stay away from us,” said Bess, suddenly.

“Who’s that?” queried Nan, looking up at the change in Bess’ voice.

“Linda Riggs. She’s coming this way,” Bess said, tartly.

This conversation occurred in the skating rink, and while Nan was having her skates strapped on by an attendant, for Walter Mason was not at the moment in sight.

The haughty daughter of the railroad president evidently proposed speaking with the chums from Tillbury. They had not seen her since the runaway and more than once Nan had wondered just what attitude Linda would take when they again met.

For Nan’s part, she would rather not have met the rich girl at all. She had no particular ill-feeling toward her now; although time was when Linda had done all in her power to hurt Nan’s reputation— and that not so very long past. But having actually helped to save the girl’s life, Nan Sherwood could not hold any grudge against Linda. Bess, on the other hand, bristled like an angry dog when she saw Linda approach.

Linda came skating along warily, and arrived at the chums’ bench by a series of graceful curves. She was rather a good skater, but more showy than firm on her skates.

“Oh, girls! I’m awful glad to see you,” Linda cried, boisterously— and that boisterousness doubtless was assumed to cover her natural embarrassment at meeting again the girl whom she had so injured. “I didn’t have time,” pursued Linda, hurriedly, “the other day, to thank you properly— or Walter— for helping me out of that sleigh. I was scared.”

“I should think you would have been,” Bess said, rather grimly. “I’m sure I thought you would never get out of it alive.”

“Well,” repeated Linda, more doubtfully, for Nan had remained silent, “I wanted to thank you for what you did for me.”

“You needn’t thank me,” said Bess, sharply. “For I didn’t do a thing.”