“Let’s go out and make sure that he wasn’t taken by the police here, or at Norfolk.”
“You go. I’ll write to Mrs. Smith. Don’t get lost,” said Ruth, drawing paper and envelopes toward her and preparing to write the missive.
It was growing dark before Ruth finished the letter—and that should not have been, for it was not yet noon! She looked up and then ran to the window. A storm cloud was sweeping down the bay and off across Hampton Roads. Over in Norfolk it was raining—a sharp shower. But it did not look as though it would hit the Point.
While Ruth was looking out Helen came running into the writing room, greatly excited. “Oh, come on, Ruthie!” she cried. “I’ve got a man who will take us for a drive all around the Point and around the fortress.”
“Well, I’d call it a barouche. It’s an old thing; but he’s such a nice, old darkey, and——”
“How much have you already paid him, my dear?” asked Ruth, interrupting.
“And I thought you went to inquire whether they had arrested that boy?”
“Oh! didn’t I tell you?” said Helen. “They didn’t get him. Neither here nor at Norfolk. I asked the man on the dock. Then this nice, old colored man in _such_ a funny livery, asked me to ride with him. He’s been driving white folks around here, he says, ever since the war.”
“What war? The War with Spain?” asked Ruth, tartly. “I begin to believe that there must be some sign on you, my dear, which tells these fellows that you have money and can be easily parted from it.”
“That is true. Well! we’ll get our hats——”
“Don’t need anything of the kind. Or wraps, either. It’s lovely out.”
“What do you mean, Ruthie? My hack driver?” giggled Helen.
“Nonsense, you naughty child! That thunder storm.”
“The driver says it won’t come over here. Let’s go.”
“All right,” Ruth finally said. “I know you have already paid him and we must get some return for your money.”
“What a terribly saving creature you are,” scoffed Helen. “I begin to believe that you have caught Uncle Jabez’s disease, living with him there in the Red Mill. There! Oh, Ruth! I didn’t mean that. I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for anything.”
But she had effectually closed Ruth’s lips upon the subject of the waste of money. Her chum’s countenance was rather serious as they went out upon the great veranda, which had a sweep wider than the face of the Capitol at Washington. Below them was a decrepit old carriage, drawn by a horse, the harness of which was repaired in more than one place with rope. The smart equipages made this ramshackle old vehicle look older than Noah’s Ark at Briarwood Hall.