The Turn of the Tide Part 12

"By George, where are those people?" he queried.

"But we started first, and we came rapidly for a time," reminded the girl.

"I know, but we've been simply creeping for the last mile or two,"

returned the man. "I slowed up purposely to fall in behind the rest. I'm not so sure I know the way from here--but perhaps you do." And he turned his eyes questioningly to hers.

"Not I," she laughed. "But I thought you did."

"So did I," he grumbled. "I've been over this road enough in times past.

Oh, I can get back to Hilcrest all right," he added rea.s.suringly. "It's only that I don't remember which is the best way. One road takes us through the town and is not so pleasant. I wanted to avoid that if possible."

"Never mind; let's go on," proposed the girl. "It's getting late, and we might miss them even if we waited. They may have taken another road farther back. If they thought you knew the way they wouldn't feel in duty bound to keep track of us, and they may have already reached home.

I don't mind a bit which road we take."

"All right," acquiesced Brandon. "Just as you say. I think this is the one. Anyhow, we'll try it." And he turned his car to the left.

The sun had dipped behind the hills, and the quick chill of an August evening was in the air. Margaret shivered and reached for her coat. The road wound in and out through a scrubby growth of trees, then turned sharply and skirted the base of a steep hill. Beyond the next turn it dropped in a gentle descent and ran between wide open fields. A house appeared, then another and another. A man and a woman walked along the edge of the road and stopped while the automobile pa.s.sed. The houses grew more frequent, and children and small dogs scurried across the road to a point of safety.

"By George, I believe we've got the wrong road now," muttered Brandon with a frown. "Shall we go back?"

"No, no," demurred the girl. "What does it matter? It's only another way around, and perhaps no longer than the other."

The road turned and dropped again. The hill was steeper now. The air grew heavy and fanned Margaret's cheek with a warm breath as if from an oven. Unconsciously she loosened the coat at her throat.

"Why, how warm it is!" she exclaimed.

"Yes. I fancy there's no doubt now where we are," frowned Brandon. "I thought as much," he finished as the car swung around a curve.

Straight ahead the road ran between lines of squat brown houses with men, women, and children swarming on the door-steps or hanging on the fences. Beyond rose tier upon tier of red and brown roofs flanked on the left by the towering chimneys of the mills. Still farther beyond and a little to the right, just where the sky was reddest, rose the terraced slopes of Prospect Hill crowned by the towers and turrets of Hilcrest.

"We can at least see where we want to be," laughed Brandon. "Fine old place--shows up great against that sky; doesn't it?"

The girl at his side did not answer. Her eyes had widened a little, and her cheeks had lost their bright color. She was not looking at the pile of brick and stone on top of Prospect Hill, but at the ragged little urchins and pallid women that fell back from the roadway before the car.

The boys yelled derisively, and a baby cried. Margaret shrank back in her seat, and Brandon, turning quickly, saw the look on her face. His own jaw set into determined lines.

"We'll be out of this soon, Miss Kendall," he a.s.sured her. "You mustn't mind them. As if it wasn't bad enough to come here anyway but that I must needs come now just when the day-shift is getting home!"

"The day-shift?"

"Yes; the hands who work days, you know."

"But don't they all work--days?"

Brandon laughed.

"Hardly!"

"You mean, they work _nights_?"

"Yes." He threw a quizzical smile into her startled eyes. "By the way,"

he observed, "you'd better not ask Frank in that tone of voice if they work nights. That night-shift is a special pet of his. He says it's one great secret of the mills' prosperity--having two shifts. Not that his are the only mills that run nights, of course--there are plenty more."

Margaret's lips parted, but before she could speak there came a hoa.r.s.e shout and a quick cry of terror. The next instant the car under Brandon's skilful hands swerved sharply and just avoided a collision with a boy on a bicycle.

"Narrow shave, that," muttered Brandon. "He wasn't even looking where he was going."

Margaret shuddered. She turned her gaze to the right and to the left.

Everywhere were wan faces and sunken eyes. With a little cry she clutched Brandon's arm.

"Can't we go faster--faster," she moaned. "I want to get away--away!"

For answer came the sharp "honk-honk" of the horn, and the car bounded forward. With a shout the crowd fell back, and with another "honk-honk"

Brandon took the first turn to the right.

"I think we're out of the worst of it," he cried in Margaret's ear. "If we keep to the right, we'll go through only the edge of the town." Even as he spoke, the way cleared more and more before them, and the houses grew farther apart.

The town was almost behind them, and their speed had considerably lessened, when Margaret gave a scream of horror. Almost instantly Brandon brought the car to a stop and leaped to the ground. Close by one of the big-rimmed wheels lay a huddled little heap of soiled and ragged pink calico; but before Brandon could reach it, the heap stirred, and lifted itself. From beneath a tangled thatch of brown curls looked out two big brown eyes.

"I reckon mebbe I felled down," said a cheery voice that yet sounded a little dazed. "I reckon I did."

"Good heavens, baby, I reckon you did!" breathed the man in glad relief.

"And you may thank your lucky stars 'twas no worse."

"T'ank lucky stars. What are lucky stars?" demanded the small girl, interestedly.

"Eh? Oh, lucky stars--why, they're--what are lucky stars, Miss Kendall?"

Margaret did not answer. She did not seem to hear. With eyes that carried a fascinated terror in their blue depths, she was looking at the dirty little feet and the ragged dress of the child before her.

"T'ank lucky stars," murmured the little girl again, putting out a cautious finger and just touching the fat rubber tire of the wheel that had almost crushed out her life.

Brandon shuddered involuntarily and drew the child away.

"What's your name, little girl?" he asked gently.

"Maggie."

"How old are you?"

"I'm 'most five goin' on six an' I'll be twelve ter-morrer."

Brandon smiled.

"And where do you live?" he continued.

A thin little claw of a finger pointed to an unpainted, shabby-looking cottage across the street. At that moment a shrill voice called: "Maggie, Maggie, what ye doin'? Come here, child." And a tall, gaunt woman appeared in the doorway.

Maggie turned slowly; but scarcely had the little bare feet taken one step when the girl in the automobile stirred as if waking from sleep.