“I don’t see that there is any use,” replied Wollaston.  “Maria’s father must have been there by this time.  This is a wild-goose chase anyhow.”  Wollaston’s tone was quite vicious.  He scowled superciliously at the salesman who stepped forward and asked if he wanted anything.  “No, we don’t, thank you,” he said.

“What be you goin’ to do?” asked Gladys, again.  She looked at the soda-fountain.

“I don’t see anything to do but to go home,” said Wollaston.  “There is no sense in our chasing around New York any longer, that I can see.”

“You can’t go home to-night, anyhow,” Gladys said, quite calmly.  “They’ve took off that last train, and there ain’t more’n ten minutes to git down to the station.”

Wollaston turned pale, and looked at her with horror.  “What makes you think they’ve taken off that last train?” he demanded.

“Ain’t my pa brakeman when he’s sober, and he’s been real sober for quite a spell now.”

Wollaston seized Maria by the arm.  “Come, quick!” he said, and leaving the drug-store he broke into a run for the Elevated, with Gladys following.

“There ain’t no use in your runnin’,” said she.  “You know yourself you can’t git down to Cortlandt Street, and walk to the ferry in ten minutes.  I never went but oncet, but I know it can’t be did.”

Wollaston slackened his pace.  “That is so,” he said.  Then he looked at Maria in a kind of angry despair.  He felt, in spite of his romantic predilection for her, that he wished she were a boy, so he could say something forcible.  He realized his utter helplessness with these two girls in a city where he knew no one, and he again thought of the three dollars in his pocket-book.  He did not suppose that Maria had more than fifty cents in hers.  Then, too, he was worldly wise enough to realize the difficulty of the situation, the possible danger even.  It was ten o’clock at night, and here he was with two young girls to look out for.

Then Gladys, who had also worldly wisdom, although of a crude and vulgar sort, spoke.  “Folks are goin’ to talk like the old Harry if we stay in here all night,” said she, “and besides, there’s no knowin’ what is a safe place to go into.”

“That is so,” said Wollaston, gloomily, “and I—­have not much money with me.”

“I’ve got money enough,” Maria said, suddenly.  “There are ten dollars in my pocket-book I gave you to keep.”

“My!” said Gladys.

Wollaston brightened for a moment, then his face clouded again.  “Well, I don’t know as that makes it much better,” said he.  “I don’t quite see how to manage.  They are so particular in hotels now, that I don’t know as I can get you into a decent one.  As for myself, I don’t care.  I can look out for myself, but I don’t know what to do with you, Maria.”

Gladys made a little run and stepped in front of them.  “There ain’t but one thing you can do, so Maria won’t git talked about all the rest of her life, and I kin tell you what it is,” said she.