After the funeral, Thurley and her father had retired within the box-car wagon to “grieve proper,” Ali Baba summarized, and every one left them alone, except Dan Birge, junior, who promptly knocked at the wreck of a door. Ali Baba tried to stop him, although it was nearing four o’clock, sacred hour for Miss Clergy’s drive. “Hi, you—ain’t you no reverence?” he demanded. “There’s been death in that—that household.” “I got business with her,” Dan retorted, knocking more boldly. “You don’t own this town any more’n I do. You come down off that step, you upstart.” “Chase yourself—I got to speak to Thurley.” Dan made a tantalizing face. “You don’t dare touch me—you ghost coachman—aha—aha—” Thurley opened the door just in time to allow Dan to make good his escape. Within, he stood back, abashed and silent. “What is it, Dan?” she asked mournfully. “If it’s the money you gave me—it’s gone. I’m sorry, but Pa needed ‘comfort’ for the burial.” “Oh, that’s nothing—he got the ‘comfort’ at my pa’s store, so it’s back in the till. I wanted to say I was sorry and we won’t have the circus until you’re feeling fit.” Thurley’s eyes filled with tears. “Your mother’s dead, too, ain’t she?” she asked. “My mother died when I was born,” he confided. “I guess I’d rather have it that way. It would hurt worse to lose your mother, after you really knew her. Say, Thurley, I wanted to tell you I’d like to have you join our gang. There’s about eight of us now—all boys—but I think you’d be just as good. Maybe it would make you forget; maybe your father will go to work and you’ll never go away from here; maybe my father will give him a job, if he can tote barrels. I’ll ask him and you join our gang and we’ll be happy.” “I’ll have to work,” Thurley corrected. “Pa’s awful sick; Ma thought he would die when we was on the road. He can’t tote barrels and neither can I, but I’d like to join the gang, Dan, if I have time. And when your circus plays at South Wales, I’ll come and sing.” She held out her hand in gratitude. The boy took it awkwardly. “I liked you right off,” he admitted. “If you see me getting too fresh or mis-spelling words or things like that—tell me. I’ll take it from you. Everybody thinks because my father made money selling beer that I’m going to be hung. Maybe I’ll go to school like you said—I’m not going to be any old bum, anyhow—and, if you decide to join the gang, we meet at Wood’s Hollow by Dog Creek every afternoon it ain’t raining, but don’t tell Lorraine McDowell, because she wanted to be my girl this winter and I won’t let her.”