"Give my child to your little girl, and tell her to take
good care of it," she said.
As Phronsie's French had long been one of Grandpapa's special
responsibilities in the morning hours, she spoke it nearly as well as
Polly herself, so the man grasped the doll as he had seized the money
before.
"And now," said Mr. King, "you are not going to run away this time
without telling me--oh, bless me!"
This last was brought out by an excited individual rushing up over the
curbstone to get out of the way of a passing dray, and the walking-stick
which he swung aloft as a protection, coming into collision with
Mr. King's hat, knocked it over his eyes.
"A thousand pardons, Monsieur!" exclaimed the Frenchman, bowing and
scraping.
"You may well beg a thousand pardons," cried Mr. King, angrily, "to go
about in this rude fashion through the street."
"A thousand pardons," repeated the Frenchman, with more
_empressement_ than before, and tripping airily on his way.
When old Mr. King had settled his hat, he turned back to the man. "Now
tell me--why--" The man was nowhere to be seen.
"It surely does look bad," said the old gentleman to himself as he
stepped into the cab with Phronsie; "that man's children are a myth.
And I wanted to do something for them, for he saved Phronsie's life!"
This being the only idea he could possibly retain all the way home to
the hotel, he held her closely within his arm, Phronsie chattering
happily all the way, how the little girl she guessed was just receiving
the doll, and wondering what name she would give it, and would she wash
its face clean at once, and fix the torn and muddy clothes?
"Oh, yes, yes, I hope so," answered Grandpapa, when she paused for an
answer.
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