His nut-cracker face almost allowed itself a pleased
expression--but not quite. David, the Scone Man, was Scotch (I was
going to add, d'ye ken, but I will not).
Jennie wondered if she really saw those things. Mutton pies!
Scones! Scotch short bread! Oat cakes! She edged closer,
wriggling her way through the little crowd until she stood at the
counter's edge. David, the Scone Man, his back to the crowd, was
turning the last batch of oat cakes. Jennie felt strangely
light-headed, and unsteady, and airy. She stared straight ahead,
a half-smile on her lips, while a hand that she knew was her own,
and that yet seemed no part of her, stole out, very, very slowly,
and cunningly, and extracted a hot scone from the pile that lay in
the tray on the counter. That hand began to steal back, more
quickly now. But not quickly enough. Another hand grasped her
wrist. A woman's high, shrill voice (why will women do these
things to each other?) said, excitedly:
"Say, Scone Man! Scone Man! This girl is stealing
something!"
A buzz of exclamations from the crowd--a closing in upon
her--a whirl of faces, and counter, and trays, and gas stove.
Jennie dropped with a crash, the warm scone still grasped in her
fingers.
Just before the ambulance came it was the blonde lady of the
impossible gelatines who caught the murmur that came from Jennie's
white lips.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130