Bobby had come home from school with a lump on his head as big as a hen's egg, where some "gas-house kid," as Bobby expressed it, "had fetched him a crack." Mike, on his way down from the Grand Central, knowing that John was away with the other horse and Kitty worrying, had urged big Jim to gallop, and, in his haste, had bowled over a ten-year-old boy astride of a bicycle, and, worse yet, the entire outfit--big Jim, wagon, Mike, boy, bicycle, and the boy's father--were at that precise moment lined up in front of the captain's desk at the 35th Street police station.
The arrest did not trouble Kitty.

She knew the captain and the captain knew her.

If bail were needed, there were half a dozen men within fifty yards of where she stood who would gladly furnish it.

Mike was careless, anyhow, and a little overhauling would do him good.
What did trouble her was the tying up of big Jim and her wagon at a time when she needed them most.

Nobody knew when John would be back, and there was the stuff piling up, and not a soul to handle it.