“No, he isn't; he's at home—at Mrs. Apperthwaite's—playing cards.”
“What!”
“I happen to know that he'll be there all evening.”
Mr. Peck smote his palms together. “Grist!” he called, over his shoulder, and his colleague struggled forward. “Listen to this: even Dowden ain't at Beasley's. Ain't the Lord workin' fer us to-night!”
“Why don't you take Dowden with you,” I urged, “if there's anything you want to show him?”
“By George, I WILL!” shouted Peck. “I've got him where the hair's short NOW!”
“That's right,” said Grist.
“Gentlemen”—Peck turned to the others—“when we git to Mrs. Apperthwaite's, jest stop outside along the fence a minute. I recken we'll pick up a recruit.”
Shivering, we took up our way again in single file, stumbling through drifts that had deepened incredibly within the hour. The wind was straight against us, and so stingingly sharp and so laden with the driving snow that when we reached Mrs. Apperthwaite's gate (which we approached from the north, not passing Beasley's) my eyes were so full of smarting tears I could see only blurred planes of light dancing vaguely in the darkness, instead of brightly lit windows.
“Now,” said Peck, panting and turning his back to the wind; “the rest of you gentlemen wait out here. You two newspaper men, you come with me.”