It was a crisp, clear morning—the last of November—when the family returned to the cabin. There were evidences to be seen of a man’s presence when they entered the door. A pipe lay on the table, a pair of shoepacks on the floor, a book, half open, had been tossed on the settle. Agnes took in all these details. “Jerry is still here,” she remarked, “but I didn’t know he ever touched a book.”
“Never mind the book, or what he touches,” said Polly; “we’ve got to stir our stumps and get these things of ours where they belong. Where’s your father?”
“He’s gone out to the truck patch.”
“So much the better. We shan’t need him till mealtime. By then Jerry will be back, I’m thinking. Trust the men for bein’ on hand when the vittles is on the table.”
But it was not till they were snugly settled in bed that night that they heard the sound of some one at the door which Agnes had securely bolted. She gave Polly a gentle shake and whispered, “There’s some one at the door, Polly; I expect it’s Jerry.”
“Whist!” said Polly. “Don’t wake your fayther, though he do sleep that heavy you could fire off a gun in the room and it wouldn’t stir him. I’ll go to the door and ask who it is.” She suited the action to the word and put the question, “Is it yersel’, Jerry?”
“No,” was the reply in an unfamiliar voice. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?”
Polly drew back. “The man’s stark, starin’ mad!” she exclaimed. “What’s he doin’ wanderin’ about without a kaper?”
“Don’t let him in! Don’t let him in!” cried Agnes. “See that the window’s shut, Polly, do.”
But Polly’s curiosity got the best of her, and she went to the window to peer out. The man was fumbling at the door, trying to get it unfastened. Failing in this he went toward the window. Polly quickly slammed to the wooden shutter, at the same time crying out, “Get out of here wid ye, and do it quick.”