Jim took her arm carefully and looked straight ahead as they marched through the lobby and into the throng outside. Hattie’s voice continued its ceaseless monotone, but Jim paid her no heed. The words seemed to flow about him without impinging upon his consciousness. This was a job which he had taken upon himself, and he manfully proceeded to discharge his duties as guide to Robert’s cousin.

They walked slowly toward Canal, and Hattie’s flow of personal reminiscences slowly faded away to sniffs of horror and gasps of astonishment. Her eyes jerked about madly as she sought to see everything of the fantastic spectacle. What a story she would have to tell at home!

Jim was more and more painfully conscious of curious glances following them as they made their way along the sidewalk. There were titters behind their backs, and amused side-glances as the carnivalists studied the grotesque appearance Hattie presented.

She was serenely unconscious of the stir her costume created. If she noticed that at all, it was with the satisfied belief that she was giving them an “eyeful.”

Jim plodded doggedly ahead. Dragging impatiently at Hattie when she would have stopped to stare erotically at the amorous gestures of a group of men and maids who had imbibed of something stronger than the festival spirit.

Her conversation had been reduced to a series of “ohs” and “ahs” when they were finally flung into the maelstrom of Canal. The time was nearing midnight, and the atmosphere of untrammeled carousal was replacing the lighter aspect of earlier evening.

Jim drew Hattie back to a store front where the fringe of the crowd surged past and gave them some respite from the breathless give and take encountered in moving through the surging mélange of participants.

Her eyes were glittering and she breathed heavily. Jim stole a guarded glance at Hattie’s face as they stood together, and surprised an expression of strained expectancy. It was as though, disbelieving, she sought frantically for belief. As though her mind told her this was but a mirage, while her warped soul found something splendid in the unreality of the moment. As though she realized the entire world had gone insane... and an inner consciousness welcomed and embraced the insanity.

“Oooh! Look, Buddie! See th’ lady in th’ costume! Ain’t she grand?”

Jim looked down to see a chubby lass in a sadly bedraggled fairy costume tugging at the arm of a smaller, and fatter, and dirtier edition of herself who wore what Jim supposed to be a cowboy costume. The little girl was not more than six... and she was pointing excitedly at Cousin Hattie.

Jim stole another quick glance at Hattie, and was relieved to see her thin nose was pointing in the opposite direction as she watched a couple who had cleared a space for a gyrating execution of the rhumba.

“She looks sorta like mammy,” the little boy responded sturdily.

“Oooh,” the little girl said. “But mammy wouldn’ come to Mwada Gwa an’ be costumed an’ all like her. You know she wouldn’,” she ended severely.

“Wheah’s daddy, Boots?” the little fellow asked impatiently.

“He’s comin’ fas’ as he kin. We left him when we runned back yonder. He wuz talkin’ to that lady an’ she wouldn’ lissen.”

“Oh yeh. I ’member. Th’ lady looked cross. I’m glad she didn’ talk tuh daddy. I wuz ’fraid he might pick her out fer our new mammy... an’ I didn’ like her. I like this’n better.” Buddie motioned toward Hattie, who remained unconscious of the fact that she was being discussed.

Jim listened with amusement. His mind was working at top speed as he revolved the question of what to do with Hattie. She seemed to have entirely forgotten the lateness of the hour. He shuddered as he looked forward to weary hours of following her about the streets. Half his conscious mind listened to the conversation of the children, while the other half toyed with the desperate thought of disappearing while Hattie was looking the other way.

“Shhh. She’ll hear you,” Boots warned her brother. “Daddy wouldn’ like you to say that.”

“But she is lots nicer,” Buddie insisted. “I betcha daddy’ll think so too. I betcha maybe he’ll ast her tuh be our new mammy.”

“Oooh! There comes daddy now!” Boots exclaimed. “Don’t he look funny? He’s huntin’ fer us. He looks turrible worrit.” She laughed merrily and pointed with a dirty forefinger.

Jim looked in the direction she pointed and saw a tall figure hurriedly approaching them through the throngs which buffeted and shoved him about. It was the Widower Simpson, his angular frame fantastically rigged out in an ill-fitting Gaucho costume.

A beaded vest hung loosely from his thin shoulders, over a flowing blouse of vivid yellow. A wide crimson sash was about his waist, and his thin shanks were encased in tight pants which clung to his flesh and made him walk stiff-legged. A wide sombrero with leather chin strap completed the costume and added a final touch of grotesquerie to his appearance.

Yet, there was something pathetic about the man which held back the laugh his fantastic garb merited. A haunting hopefulness in his eyes, a suggestion of wistful eagerness in his mien, an air of nervous expectancy which, somehow, changed one’s mirth to a choked dismay. It was evident that he was proud of his regalia, and totally unaware of the ludicrous figure he presented.

He was searching for Boots and Buddie when Jim first saw him; frowning anxiously and peering about uncertainly. He was close to them before he saw they were safe, and Jim saw him straighten and breathe a huge sigh of relief. Jim was still staring at the man, uncertain whether he should laugh or weep, when he heard Hattie’s sharp tone addressing the children:

“My goodness sake’s alive! What are your parents thinking of? You two babies out at this time of night?”

“We ain’t babies,” Boots responded sturdily. “I’m fi’-goin’-on-six, an’ Buddie’s four.”

“’Sides, daddy’s lookin’ after us,” Buddie chimed in. “He’s comin’ now. He stopped to talk to the lady not as purty as you, an’ we jes’ come on wivout him.”

“But you should have been in bed hours ago,” Hattie said hastily. But her severity relaxed and she almost hazarded a smile. “Your daddy needs a good talking to... that’s what he needs,” she ended.

It was at that moment that Jim was inspired. Ever afterward he looked back upon that instant and marveled at the strength and certainty he had shown in handling the situation. He saw the Widower Simpson gazing upon Hattie beseechingly. From the children’s conversation it had been a simple matter to gather that their father was searching for a new mother for them.

Simpson looked simple and naïve enough to grasp at any straw. Would he grasp at Hattie? Jim considered the plan desperately during the split second before he acted.

This was his opportunity to sidestep the incubus of Robert’s redoubtable Cousin Hattie. His one chance! For certainly in all the Mardi Gras throng he would not find another Widower Simpson.

But Hattie? How would she react to the impropriety of casually striking up a friendship with a total stranger? Jim was very positive the ladies in the Aid Society would frown upon any such loose conduct. If he only knew the man’s name!

He whirled upon Simpson and grasped his arm. “What’s your name?” he hissed in his ear.

“Simpson,” he replied automatically. Then he drew back in alarm as Jim dragged him forward.

“Just think of meeting you here! Of all men!” he cried heartily. “My old friend, Simpson!” He slapped him enthusiastically upon the back while Hattie looked up in surprise.

“I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Jim said to her while Simpson muttered futile protests under his breath. “Mr. Simpson, the father of these charming children. And this, Simp old pal, is... is... Cousin Hattie,” he caught himself — “Uh... that is, Robert’s Cousin Hattie. Robert Sutler, you know?”

“I’m so glad to meet you,” Hattie exclaimed, bowing perkily. Mr. Simpson looked from Jim to Hattie in open-mouthed astonishment. He was almost persuaded that he did recognize Jim, and he thought the name of Robert Sutler had a familiar sound. He didn’t want to be boorish before such a charming lady... and, after all, this was Mardi Gras.

“Pleased tuh meetcha,” he muttered.

“Hain’t she got uh purty costume, daddy?” Boots tugged at his sleeve. “I ain’t seen no other costume atall like hers.”

“Shhh,” Simpson muttered desperately to his small daughter. “That’s the lady’s dress... and it’s a swell un too.”

Cousin Hattie bridled at first because the child thought her black silk was a costume, but she unbent before Simpson’s evident admiration.

“That’s all right,” she said forgivingly. “The little girl is tired and sleepy. It’s just a shame to have them out on the streets at this time of night. What is their mother thinking of?”

“We ain’ got no mammy,” Buddie said quickly. “She went tuh stay wiv thuh angels.” His upturned face was positively cherubic as he supplied this information.

“Oh, you poor lambs!” Hattie exclaimed feelingly. She knelt quickly and sought to gather them in her arms, but they eluded her.

“Be nice to the lady,” Mr. Simpson told them firmly.

They sidled in closer and Hattie cooed over them. Jim turned to Mr. Simpson with a vague smile. “She loves children,” he muttered.

Mr. Simpson’s Adam’s apple leaped furiously as he sought to speak. Jim saw he was much affected by Hattie’s motherly demonstrativeness, and he struck while the iron was hot.

“Wouldn’t you like to show Miss Hattie some of the sights?” he offered delicately. “I have another engagement, and I’m sure you’d make a much better guide than I am.”