As evening deepened on that first Wednesday, they kept out of doors as late as possible, the boy chattering to the best of his ability. When obliged to go in, Quidmore tried to say with solicitude on Tom's behalf:
"Expect you'll be lonesome now with only the two of us in the house. Better come and sleep in the other bed in my room."
The boy was about to reply that he was not lonesome, and preferred his own bed, when he caught the dread behind the invitation.
"All right, dad, I'll come. Sleep there every night. Then I won't be scared."
About two in the morning Tom was wakened by a shout. "Hell! Hell! Hell!"
Jumping from his own bed, he ran to the other. "Wake up, dad! Wake up!"
Ouidmore woke, confused and trembling. "Wha' matter?" His senses returning, he spoke more distinctly. "Must have had a nightmare. God! Turn on the light. Hate bein' in the dark. Now get back to bed. All right again."
The next day both were picking strawberries. It was not Quidmore's custom to pick strawberries, but he seemed to prefer a task at which he could crouch, and be more or less out of sight. Happening to glance up, he saw a stranger coming round the duck pond.
"Who's that?" he snapped, in terror.
Tom ran to the stranger, interviewed him, and ran back again. "It's an agent for a new kind of fertilizer."