“Yes,” he said.
There was a silence. Mabel sat on like one condemned, at the head of the table. Then a whistle was heard from the kitchen. The dog got up and barked sharply. Joe opened the door and shouted:
“Come on.”
After a moment a young man entered. He was muffled up in overcoat and a purple woollen scarf, and his tweed cap, which he did not remove, was pulled down on his head. He was of medium height, his face was rather long and pale, his eyes looked tired.
“Hello, Jack! Well, Jack!” exclaimed Malcolm and Joe. Fred Henry merely said, “Jack.”
“What’s doing?” asked the newcomer, evidently addressing Fred Henry.
“Same. We’ve got to be out by Wednesday.—Got a cold?”
“I have—got it bad, too.”
“Why don’t you stop in?”
“Me stop in? When I can’t stand on my legs, perhaps I shall have a chance.” The young man spoke huskily. He had a slight Scotch accent.