When they came to the wharf, several carriages were waiting. Some were
handsome equipages with silver-mounted harnesses (for nabobs then were
in Nahant); others were the familiar New England carryalls. Mercedes
looked for Mr. Bowdoin, hoping he had come to meet her in one of the
former, but was disappointed, for that gentleman was seen running down
the hill as if too late, his blue dress-coat tails streaming in the
wind, his Panama hat in one hand, and a large brown-paper bag,
bursting with oranges, in the other. By accident or design, as he
neared the wharf, the bag did burst, and all the oranges went rolling
down the road.
"Pick 'em up, children, pick 'em up!" gasped Mr. Bowdoin. "Findings
keepings, you know." And he broke into a chuckle as the two smaller
girls precipitated themselves upon the rolling orange-spheres as if
they were footballs, and Master Harley, in his anxiety to stop one
that was rolling over the wharf, tripped upon the hawser, and was
grabbed by a friendly sailor just as he himself was rolling after it
into the sea.
"You don't seem to care for oranges, Miss Dolly," said Mr. Bowdoin, as
Miss Dowse stood haughtily aloof; and he looked then at Mercedes, who
was left quite alone, yet followed Miss Dowse's example of dignity;
Jamie standing behind, not beside her, hat in hand.
"Ah, Ja-- Mr. McMurtagh," said Mr. Bowdoin, doffing his own. "And so
this is our Miss Mercy again? Why don't you chase the oranges, my
dear?"
Mercedes looked at the old gentleman a moment, then ran after the
oranges.