Part 16 (1/2)

”No, I--didn't. I--couldn't.”

”Coorse not; coorse not, but ye--”

”Let me out!” cried Split.

The sneer in his voice had set her aflame. She rose in the sleigh, cast off the furs, and, stamping like a fury, tried to seize the reins.

”Ho! Ho!” The old monarch's bowed broad shoulders shook with laughter as he caught her trembling hands and held them. ”What a little spitfire! A divvle of a temper ye've got, my dear. Cody, now, does he like gyurls with such a temper?”

”Will you let me out?” Her voice was hoa.r.s.e with anger.

”Can't ye wait till we get t' a crossin', ye little termagant?”

”No--no!” She tore her hands from him, and, with a quick, lithe leap from the low sleigh, landed, a bit dazed, in the snow banked high on the side of the street.

Uncle Sammy stared after her a moment. Then he remembered the boy behind.

”Hi--there!” he cried, looking over his shoulder as he reached for his whip. ”Git!”

But Cody had the street-boy's quickness. All he had to do was to let go the end of rope he held, and the leg-breaker slipped smoothly back, while the king's runnered chariot shot ahead, drawn by the flying horses on whose backs the whip had descended.

”Ugh!” s.h.i.+vered Split, as she made her way out of the drift. ”It's cold, Jack. Let's run.”

Together they hauled the leg-breaker up the hill, parting at the snow-caked, wandering flights of steps, which seemed weary and worn with their endless task of climbing the mountain to Madigan's door.

Irene mounted them quickly. She was cold, and it had grown very dark and late; so late that the lamp shone out from the dining-room, warning her that it must be dangerously near to dinner-time. She had reached the last flight when Sissy came flying out along the porch to meet her.

”Split--ss.h.!.+” she cautioned, with a friendliness that surprised Split, who remembered how well she had washed that round, innocent face in the snow only a few hours ago--the face of Sissy, the unforgiving. ”Dinner's ready,” she went on, ”but father isn't down yet. Go round the back way, and you can get in without his knowing how late you are.”

Split did not budge. The sight of Sissy had made her a Madigan again, prepared for any emergency the appearance of her arch-enemy might portend. ”What are you up to?” she demanded suspiciously.

”Oh!” Sissy turned haughtily on her heel. ”If you want to go in and catch it--go.”

But Split did not want to catch it. Her day's experience had made her content to bear the eccentricities of her humble foster-father, but she was by no means anxious to be the instrument that should provoke a characteristic expression of them.

She slipped around the back way, pa.s.sing through Wong's big kitchen, the heat and odors of which were grateful messages of cheer to her chilled little body. She flew up-stairs and tore off her wet clothing, and was out in the hall, b.u.t.toning hastily as she walked, when the door-bell rang.

In some previous existence Split Madigan must have been a most intelligent horse in some metropolitan fire department. It was her instinct still to run at the sound of the bell; every other Madigan, therefore, delighted in preventing that impulse's gratification. But this time Bessie came hurriedly to meet her and even speed her on her errand.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'Oh, you needn't glare at me!' exclaimed Bep”]

”Quick--it's your father, Split!” she cried.

Split looked at her. She trusted Bep no more than she did Sissy, whose lieutenant the blonde twin was.

”Oh, you needn't glare at me!” exclaimed Bep, her guilty conscience sensitive to accusation by implication. ”Fom told me all you told her about him. She was 'fraid you were coming after her for letting you fall off the see-saw, and she told me the whole thing. She said you expected him to-night--don't you?”

”How--do you know it's--my father that's at the door?” demanded Split, all the warier of the enemy because of her acquaintance with her secret.