Mistress Mary went down to the street corner with the children one
noon to see them safely over the crossing. There was generally a
genial policeman who made it a part of his duty to stand guard there,
and guide the reckless and stupid and bewildered ones among the
youngsters over the difficulties that lay in their path. Sometimes
he would devote himself exclusively to Atlantic and Pacific Simonson,
who really desired death, though they were not spiritually fitted for
it, and bent all their energies towards getting under trucks rather
than away from them. Marm Lisa never approached the spot without a
nervous trembling and a look of terror in her eyes, and before the
advent of the helpful officer had always taken a twin by each arm,
and the three had gone over thus as a solid body, no matter how
strong the resistance.
On this special morning there was no guardian of the peace in
evidence, but standing on the crossing was a bearded man of perhaps
forty years. Rather handsome he was, and well though carelessly
dressed, but he stood irresolutely with his hands in his pockets, as
if quite undecided what to do next. Mary simply noted him as an
altogether strange figure in the neighbourhood, but the unexpected
appearance of a large dog on the scene scattered the babies, and they
fell on her in a weeping phalanx.
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