and pushed back her hair. “Oh, no, I won’t! I never ran off but once,
and then he didn’t get anything but a bump. He likes this better than a
baby buggy, and so do I.”
“Are you going to kick that cart all the way home?”
“Of course. We take long trips; wherever there is a sidewalk. It’s no
good on the road.”
“Looks to me like working pretty hard for your fun. Are you going to be
busy to-night? Want to make a call with me? Spanish Johnny’s come home
again, all used up. His wife sent me word this morning, and I said I’d
go over to see him to-night. He’s an old chum of yours, isn’t he?”
“Oh, I’m glad. She’s been crying her eyes out. When did he come?”
“Last night, on Number Six. Paid his fare, they tell me. Too sick to
beat it. There’ll come a time when that boy won’t get back, I’m afraid.
Come around to my office about eight o’clock,—and you needn’t bring
that!”
Thor seemed to understand that he had been insulted, for he scowled and
began to kick the side of the wagon, shouting, “Go-go, go-go!” Thea
leaned forward and grabbed the wagon tongue. Dr. Archie stepped in front
of her and blocked the way. “Why don’t you make him wait? What do you
let him boss you like that for?”
“If he gets mad he throws himself, and then I can’t do anything with
him. When he’s mad he’s lots stronger than me, aren’t you, Thor?” Thea
spoke with pride, and the idol was appeased. He grunted approvingly as
his sister began to kick rapidly behind her, and the wagon rattled off
and soon disappeared in the flying currents of sand.
That evening Dr. Archie was seated in his office, his desk chair tilted
back, reading by the light of a hot coal-oil lamp. All the windows were
open, but the night was breathless after the sandstorm, and his hair was
moist where it hung over his forehead. He was deeply engrossed in his
book and sometimes smiled thoughtfully as he read. When Thea Kronborg
entered quietly and slipped into a seat, he nodded, finished his
paragraph, inserted a bookmark, and rose to put the book back into the
case. It was one out of the long row of uniform volumes on the top
shelf.
“Nearly every time I come in, when you’re alone, you’re reading one of
those books,” Thea remarked thoughtfully. “They must be very nice.”
The doctor dropped back into his swivel chair, the mottled volume still
in his hand. “They aren’t exactly books, Thea,” he said seriously.
“They’re a city.”
“A history, you mean?”
“Yes, and no. They’re a history of a live city, not a dead one. A
Frenchman undertook to write about a whole cityful of people, all the
kinds he knew. And he got them nearly all in, I guess. Yes, it’s very
interesting. You’ll like to read it some day, when you’re grown up.”
Thea leaned forward and made out the title on the back, “A Distinguished
Provincial in Paris.”
“It doesn’t sound very interesting.”
“Perhaps not, but it is.” The doctor scrutinized her broad face, low
enough to be in the direct light from under the green lamp shade. “Yes,”
he went on with some satisfaction, “I think you’ll like them some day.
