"But, Mr. Hudson, my ticket? I'm sure I won't have the money--?"

"Advance it to you on your pay, Miss Arundel."

"But what is the work?" Sheila still held her hand against her forehead.

Hudson laughed his short, cracked cackle. "Jest old-fashioned house-work,
dish-washing and such. 'Help' can't be had in Millings, and Girlie and
Babe kick like steers when Momma leads 'em to the dish-pan. Not that
you'd have to do it all, you know, just lend a hand to Momma. Maybe
you're too fine for that?"

"Oh, no. I have done all the work here. I'd be glad. Only--"

He came closer to her and held up a long, threatening forefinger. It was
a playful gesture, but Sheila had a distinct little tremor of fear. She
looked up into his small, brown, pensive eyes, and her own were held as
though their look had been fastened to his with rivets.

"Now, look-a-here, Miss Arundel, don't you say 'only' to me. Nor 'but.'
Nor 'if.' Nary one of those words, if you please. Say, I've got daughters
of my own and I can manage gels. I know _how_. Do you know my nickname?
Well--say--it's 'Pap.' Pap Hudson. I'm the adopting kind. Sort of
paternal, I guess. Kids and dogs follow me in the streets. You want a
recommend? Just call up Mr. Hazeldean on the telephone. He's the man that
fetched me here to buy that picture off Poppa."

"Oh," said Sheila, daughter of Mark who looked at stars, "of course
I shouldn't think of asking for a recommendation. You've been only
too kind--"