I blew in the A.D's nickel on a cross-town car and got back to the little Square.There was another organ-grinder there grinding out coon-songs,to which other piccaninnies danced.But nary a little white bundle of fluff caught hold of my hand.I walked that Square till my feet were sore.It was hot.My throat was parched.I was hungry.My head ached.I was hopeless.And yet Ijust couldn't give it up.I had asked so many children and nurse-maids whether they'd heard of the baby lost that morning and brought back by an officer,that they began to look at me as though I was not quite right in my mind.The maids grabbed the children if they started to come near me,and the children stared at me with big round eyes,as though they'd been told I was an ogre who might eat them.
I was hungry enough to.The little fruit-stand at the entrance had a fascination for me.I found myself there time and again,till I got afraid I might actually try to get of with a peach or a bunch of grapes.That thought haunted me.Fancy Nance Olden starved and blundering into the cheapest and most easily detected species of thieving!
I suppose great generals in their hour of defeat imagine themselves doing the feeblest,foolishest things.As I sat there on the bench,gazing before me,I saw the whole thing--Nancy Olden,after all her bragging,her skirmishing,her hairbreadth scapes and successes,arrested in broad daylight and before witnesses for having stolen a cool,wet bunch of grapes,worth a nickel,for her hot,dry,hungering throat!I saw the policeman that'd do it;he looked like that Sergeant Mulhill I met 'way,'way back in Latimer's garden.I saw the officer that'd receive me;he had blue eyes like the detective that came for me to the Manhattan.I saw the woman jailer--oh,she was the A.D,all right,who'd receive me without the slightest emotion,show me to a cell and lock the door,as calm,as little triumphant or affected,as though I hadn't once outwitted that cleverest of creatures--and outwitted myself in forestalling her.I saw--Mag,guess what I saw!No,truly;what I really saw?It made me jump to my feet and grab it with a squeal.
I saw my own purse lying on the gravel almost at my feet,near the little fruit-stand that had tempted me.
Blank empty it was,stripped clean,not a penny left in it,not a paper,not a stamp,not even my key.Just the same I was glad to have it.It linked me in a way to the place.The clever little girl that had stolen it had been here in this park,on this very spot.The thought of that cute young Nance Olden distracted my mind a minute from my worry--and,oh,Maggie darlin',I was worrying so!
I walked up to the fruit-stand with the purse in my hand.The old fellow who kept it looked up with an inviting smile.Lord knows,he needn't have encouraged me to buy if I'd had a penny.
"I want to ask you,"I said,"if you remember selling a lot of good things to a little girl who had a purse this--this morning?"I showed it to him,and he turned it over in his crippled old hands.
"It was full then--or fuller,anyway,"I suggested.
"You wouldn't want to get her into trouble--that little girl?"he asked cautiously.
I laughed."Not I.I--myself--"
I was going to say--well,you can imagine what I was going to say,and that I didn't say it or anything like it.
"Well--there she is,Kitty Wilson,over yonder,"he said.
I gasped,it was so unexpected.And I turned to look.There on one of the benches sat Kitty Wilson.If I hadn't been blind as a bat and full of trouble--oh,it thickens your wits,does trouble,and blinds your eyes and muffles your ears!--I'd have suspected something at the mere sight of her.For there sat Kitty Wilson enthroned,a hatless,lank little creature about twelve,and near her,clustered thick as ants around a lump of sugar,was a crowd of children,black and white,boys and girls.For Kitty--that deplorable Kitty--had money to burn;or what was even more effective at her age,she had goodies to give away.Her lap was full of spoils.She had a sample of every good thing the fruit-stand offered.Her cheeks and lips were smeary with candy.
Her dress was stained with fruit.The crumbs of cake lingered still on her chin and apron.And Kitty--I love a generous thief--was treating the gang.
It helped itself from her abundant lap;it munched and gobbled and asked for more.It was a riot of a high old time.Even the birds were hopping about as near as they dared,picking up the crumbs,and the squirrels had peanuts to throw to the birds.
And all on Nancy Olden's money!
I laughed till I shook.It was good to laugh.Nancy Olden isn't accustomed to a long dose of the doleful,and it doesn't agree with her.I strolled over to where my guests were banqueting.
You see,Mag,that's where I shouldn't rank with the A.D.I'm too inquisitive.I want to know how the other fellow in the case feels and thinks.It isn't enough for me to see him act.
"Kitty,"I said--somehow a twelve-year-old makes you feel more of a grown-up than a twelve-months-old does--"I hope you're having a good--time,Kitty Wilson,but--haven't you lost something?"She was chewing at the end of a long string of black candy-shoe-strings,all right,the stuff looks like--and she was eating just because she didn't want to stop.Goodness knows,she was full enough.Her jaws stopped,though,suddenly,as she looked from the empty purse in my outstretched hand to me,and took me in.
Oh,I know that pause intimately.It says:"Wait a minute,till I get my breath,and I'll know how much you know and just what lie to tell you."But she changed her mind when she saw my face.You know,Mag,if there's a thing that's fixed in your memory it's the face of the body you've done up.The respectables have their rogues'gallery,but we,that is,the light-fingered brigade,have got a fools'
gallery to correspond to it.
In which of 'em is my picture?Now,Margaret,that's mean.You know my portrait hangs in both.
