“Do you live at the ‘Florence,’ boy?” she asked.
“No, missy, but my brother does,” he answered.
After much rummaging, and some annoyance to a lady who now occupied the upper berth, the doll was found and restored. But by this time Josephine was wide awake and disposed to ask questions.
“What’s all the curtains hung in a row for, Bob?”
“To hide the berths, missy. I guess you’d better not talk now.”
“No, I won’t. What you doing now, Bob?” she continued.
“Making up the section across from yours, missy. Best go to sleep,” advised the man.
“Oh, I’m not a bit sleepy. Are you?” was her next demand.
“What you say? You mustn’t mumble. Mamma never allows me to mumble. I always speak outright,” was Josephine’s next comment.
“Reckon that’s true enough,” murmured the porter, under his breath.
“What, Bob? I didn’t hear,” from the little girl.
“No matter, I’ll tell you in the morning,” he whispered.
“Bob! Please to mind me, boy. I--want--to--hear--now,” very distinctly and emphatically. Josephine had been accustomed to having her wishes attended to immediately. That was about all mamma and big Bridget seemed to live for.
The lady in the berth above leaned over the edge and said, in a shrill whisper:
Bob finished the opposite section, and a woman in a red kimono came from the dressing-room and slipped behind the curtain. Josephine knew a red kimono. It belonged to Mrs. Dutton, the minister’s wife, and Mrs. Dutton often stayed at mamma’s cottage. Could this be Mrs. Dutton?
The child was out of bed, across the narrow aisle, swaying with the motion of the car, pulling the curtains apart, and clutching wildly at a figure in the lower berth.
“Mrs. Dutton. Oh! Mrs. Dutton! Here’s Josephine.”
“Oh! ’Xcuse me. I thought you were Mrs. Dutton.”
“Well, I’m not. Go away. Draw that curtain again. Go back to your folks. Your mother should know better than to let you roam about the sleeper at night.”
“My mother knows--everything!” said Josephine, loyally. “I’m dreadful sorry you’re not Mrs. Dutton, ’cause she’d have tooken off my coat and things. My coat is new. My mamma wouldn’t like me to sleep in it. But the buttons stick. I can’t undo it.”
“Go to your mother, child. I don’t wish to be annoyed.”
“I can’t, ’cause she’s over seas, big Bridget says, to that red-pickle country. I s’pose I’ll have to, then. Good-night. I hope you’ll rest well.”