Poor Nora looks right and looks left, hoping to meet
her big brother. She begins to think she shall remember
him. Everybody else looks so different from Fermoy that
he must look like home.
But there is no brother.
There is at last a joyful cry as the Swedish matron
and the riflemen recognize familiar faces. And Mike
smiles gladly, and brings round the stout bays with a
twitch, so that the end of the cart comes square to the
sidewalk. Somebody produces a step-ladder, and the
Swedish matron, with her bird-cage in her hand, descends
in triumph. Much kissing, much shaking of hands, much
thanking of God, more or less reverent. Then the cords
are cut, beds flung down, the giant boxes lifted, the
sons of Anak only know how. The money covenanted for is
produced and paid, and Mike mounts lightly to Nora's
side.
"And now, Nora, my child, wherr is the paper? For in
two minutes we 'll soon be therr, now that this rubbish
is landed."
And he read on the precious paper, "John McLaughlin,
99 Linwood Street."
Strange to say, the paper said just what it had said
two hours before.
"And now, my dear child, we will be therr in ten
minutes, if only we can cross back of Egan's."
And although they could not cross back of Egan's, for
Egan had put up a "tinimint" house since Mike had passed
that way, yet in ten minutes Linwood Street had been
found.
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