And then Mr. Tony had
come and had told her to "hustle along" and she "had runned away and
for-g-got Cynthia!"
"Well, I guess she's somebody else's Cynthia now, kid. Things don't stay
long in the parks 'round here."
Dale seemed so very old and very wise that the tiny girl listened to his
verdict with blanching face. He knew, of course.
"Where d'you live?" demanded Dale. "Why, you're just a baby! Anybody
with you?"
The child pointed rather uncertainly to one of the intersecting streets.
"I come that way," she said, then, even while saying it, began to wonder
if that were the way she had come. The streets all looked so much
alike. She had run along the curb, so as to be as far away as possible
from the dark alley ways and the doors. And it had been a long way.
Her lip quivered though she would not cry. After Cynthia's fate, just to
be lost herself did not matter.
"Well, don't you know where you live? What's the street? I'll take you
home."
"22 Patchin Place," lisped the child.
Dale hesitated a moment to make sure of his bearings. "Well, then, come
along. I know where that is. And you forget 'bout your Cynthia.
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