He was in his bed again. Wan daylight was in his opening eyes. The noise of falling rain was real. So were the loud knocking and the calling of his name. The pounding came from the outer door, and the voice was that of Uncle Eb.
“Hey, Hampton! Hampton! Speak up if ye’re livin’!”
He jumped from bed, shoved the table away from the entrance, and pulled the door open. Uncle Eb, his mustache drooping in a bedraggled wisp and his body gleaming dully in a wet rubber coat, took a sudden backward step.
“Gorry, boy! Ye scairt me, a-snakin’ the door open so sudden. I was about gittin’ ready to go ’long. How be ye?”
“All right, thanks. Come in. Wet morning.”
“Mornin’? It’s ’most noon, son. Ye been sleepin’ all this time? Mebbe—mebbe ye was broke of yer rest, though. That it?”
“That’s it. You were right—there are some funny things around this place.”
The old man nodded quickly, and his eyes swerved to the door. Following his gaze, Douglas saw that the panels were furrowed across by shot, and in the casing beyond was a splintery hole.
“I ain’t a mite s’prised,” was the guarded admission. “But git yer pants on an’ don’t stand here with yer shirt-tail a-flappin’. I got some tobacker an’ so on into the wagon—whoa, Bob! a little more rain won’t hurt ye after what ye come through—I’ll git it right out. Snake on yer clo’es before ye git cold.”
Yawning, Douglas snaked them on. By the time he emerged from his bedroom Uncle Eb had returned with a bulky box which seemed almost dry. Without ceremony he tramped in and dropped the box with a thud.