On Track for Treasure by Wendy McClure Page A

full of other orphans like you. The lady here says she can fit you on. Might even get a sandwich. Then you’ll be someone else’s problem. . . .”
    The crowd surrounding Jack seemed to blur as he recognized the figure down at the head of the corridor—the way she stood perfectly still in her fashionable dress with the puffed sleeves. The lobby tiles were highly polished, and Miss DeHaven stood in her own dark reflection.
    Jack looked around frantically. Was there another door to the outside? Anything?
    â€œJack!” Alexander whispered next to him. “We’ll make a run for it. Come on!”
    â€œRun for
what
?” Jack hissed. “There’s nowhere to go!”
    Alexander glared at him, but Jack just shook his head. The lobby was too vast, and all the other corridors were too far away for all of them to attempt an escape.
    Still, Jack’s mind kept racing as he searched for a way out. They were about to walk past the holy folks, the ones with the signs who were handing out leaflets and apples. Jack noticed the man and the older woman—his wife, Jack supposed—standing with their hands clasped, softly singing a hymn. PRAY WITH US , the sign read. Jack stared hard at it.
Pray
, he thought.
Pray for a way to get out of this mess. . . .
    Then he wrenched his arm free from the stationmaster’s grip.
“No!”
he yelled.
    â€œWhat did you say, boy?” the stationmaster growled.
    â€œNo, we’re not orphans!”
He pointed to the praying couple. “We’re with them!”
    The man and woman ceased with their hymns and looked up, blinking. Behind them, the young women and the teenage boy stared with wide eyes.
    â€œY-yes,” Frances began. “We
told
the station matron our papa was here!” She pulled her arm free, too. “That’s our family right there.”
    The porters exchanged confused looks. One of them let go of Harold and George, who rushed over to Frances and Jack, nodding in agreement.
    â€œLiars!” spat the stationmaster. “You’re lying little wretches!” He shot a look over to Miss DeHaven, who was marching toward them now, her face set in a strange, tight smile. “Now, here’s the lady; you’re going with
her
—do you understand?”
    â€œNo!” Jack yelled, but the stationmaster grabbed his arm even harder. At the same time, the porters seized Frances and the two youngest boys again. “I told you . . . ,” Jack protested.
    â€œThat’s enough. Let’s go,” said the stationmaster.
    â€œNo,
that’s
enough,” said a deep voice. It was the praying man. “Lay your hands off God’s children!”

9
    T HE FAMILY THAT PRAYS TOGETHER
    T o Frances it seemed as if everything stood still after the praying man spoke.
    Jack stood with his mouth half open. The stationmaster’s eyes bulged in surprise, and Miss DeHaven paused midstride. But Frances could still feel her own breathing, could hear herself exhaling slowly.
    And then the man said, “The boy is telling the truth.”
    â€œIndeed he is,” the woman next to him added.
    Suddenly, Frances’s arm was free. The porter had let her go. She looked around to see that the other kids were no longer being restrained, but they were looking to her and Jack to see what they should do. So Frances took a few tentative steps toward the couple. Jack and Alexander did the same.
    The stationmaster straightened up. “Just what’s going on here, Reverend Carey?” he asked the man.
    â€œI might ask you the same thing,” said the Reverend.
    The woman—Mrs. Carey, Frances guessed—picked up one of the apple bushels and held it so that Harold and George could choose apples. Which they did, gladly.
    â€œEr, we’ve had a problem here in the depot with waifs and runaways,” the stationmaster said. “And we have our ways of dealing with