With a large fund of assurance, the Scout Master crossed the porch in a bound, swung open the front door, and faced the open trunk, the dresses draped over the Bee Master’s chair; faced, also, a young woman with an unduly bleached head and over-painted face, a young woman who, to the eyes of the Scout Master, was a fine combination of everything in the world that a nice young woman should not be. The youngster stared in amazement.
“How come?” was the greeting shot at the interloper. The suggestive hands were thrown out, one in the direction of the trunk, one of the chair.
“Hello, Kiddo,” said the young person. “You’re sure my luck! Take this dime and run to the nearest grocery and get me a bottle of milk, and when you bring it back, I’ll give you a nickel for going.”
The Scout Master stood still and looked hard at the young woman, looked long and intently and remembered something and could not tell exactly what.
“You’re not, you’re not Jamie’s mother, are you? But, of course, you couldn’t be Jamie’s mother ’cause Jamie’s coming made her too sick and she had to go across whether she wanted to or not. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“That’s nothing to you,” said the young lady. “Run along and get my milk, and then I’ve got about fifty other errands I want you to do. You can pick up quite a bit of my small change in the next hour or two if you move so that you stir the dust at all.”
