and she never saw me. You ‘ll have to come too, Fan,” he added,
pausing on his way to the door, arrested by the awful idea that he
might have to address several strange girls before he got the right
one.
“You ‘ll find her easy enough; she ‘ll probably be standing round
looking for us. I dare say she ‘ll know you, though I ‘m not there,
because I ‘ve described you to her.”
“Guess she won’t, then;” and Tom gave a hasty smooth to his curly
pate and a glance at the mirror, feeling sure that his sister had n’t
done him justice. Sisters never do, as “we fellows” know too well.
“Do go along, or you ‘ll be too late; and then, what will Polly think
of me?” cried Fanny, with the impatient poke which is peculiarly
aggravating to masculine dignity.
“She ‘ll think you cared more about your frizzles than your friends,
and she ‘ll be about right, too.”
Feeling that he said rather a neat and cutting thing, Tom sauntered
leisurely away, perfectly conscious that it was late, but bent on not
being hurried while in sight, though he ran himself off his legs to
make up for it afterward.
“If I was the President, I ‘d make a law to shut up all boys till they
were grown; for they certainly are the most provoking toads in the
world,” said Fanny, as she watched the slouchy figure of her
brother strolling down the street. She might have changed her
mind, however, if she had followed him, for as soon as he turned
the corner, his whole aspect altered; his hands came out of his
pockets, he stopped whistling, buttoned his jacket, gave his cap a
pull, and went off at a great pace.
The train was just in when he reached the station, panting like a
race-horse, and as red as a lobster with the wind and the run.
“Suppose she ‘ll wear a top-knot and a thingumbob, like every one
else; and however shall I know her? Too bad of Fan to make me
come alone!” thought Tom, as he stood watching the crowd stream
through the depot, and feeling rather daunted at the array of young
ladies who passed. As none of them seemed looking for any one,
he did not accost them, but eyed each new batch with the air of a
martyr. “That ‘s her,” he said to himself, as he presently caught
sight of a girl in gorgeous array, standing with her hands folded,
and a very small hat perched on the top of a very large “chig-non,”
as Tom pronounced it. “I suppose I ‘ve got to speak to her, so here
goes;” and, nerving himself to the task, Tom slowly approached
the damsel, who looked as if the wind had blown her clothes into
rags, such a flapping of sashes, scallops, ruffles, curls, and feathers
was there.
“I say, if you please, is your name Polly Milton?” meekly asked
Tom, pausing before the breezy stranger.
“No, it is n’t,” answered the young lady, with a cool stare that
utterly quenched him.
“Where in thunder is she?” growled Tom, walking off in high
dudgeon. The quick tap of feet behind him made him turn in time
to see a fresh-faced little girl running down the long station, and
looking as if she rather liked it. As she smiled, and waved her bag
at him, he stopped and waited for her, saying to himself, “Hullo! I
wonder if that ‘s Polly?”
Up came the little girl, with her hand out, and a half-shy,
half-merry look in her blue eyes, as she said, inquiringly, “This is
Tom, is n’t it?”
“Yes. How did you know?” and Tom got over the ordeal of
hand-shaking without thinking of it, he was so surprised.
“Oh, Fan told me you ‘d got curly hair, and a funny nose, and kept
whistling, and wore a gray cap pulled over your eyes; so I knew
you directly.” And Polly nodded at him in the most friendly
manner, having politely refrained from calling the hair “red,” the
nose “a pug,” and the cap “old,” all of which facts Fanny had