"And you'll tell everybody?" said Rosalind anxiously.
"Every soul! I'll tell Stephen immediately. We'll all help—we'll be so careful!"
Rosalind watched Mrs. Witherbee hurry in search of her husband and smiled grimly.
"Something had to be done about it," she murmured. "I couldn't think of anything else offhand."
It was dusk and the Witherbee household was sitting on the porch unnaturally quiet when a voice from the path that led to the wharf rent the air with a bellow.
"Ho there, somebody! Wonder you wouldn't welcome a guest!"
Simultaneously a tall, bulky figure appeared at the edge of the lawn and crossed at a rapid walk. It stopped at the foot of the steps. Two grips that were carried in one hand were tossed upon the porch with a flirt of the wrist. Then followed a trunk, which had been balanced jauntily on one shoulder. And then Reggy Williams cleared five steps in one leap and began shaking hands with everybody.
"Nice folks!" he shouted. "Not a soul to meet a fellow! Hello, Rosalind; you're looking fine and fit. Hello, Gertrude! Hello, Tom, you lazy mucker! Why didn't you give me a hand? Didn't know I'd be here so soon, eh? I've a good mind to carry you down to the river and chuck you in."
He charged about the porch like a nervous rhinoceros, bawling salutations and leaving in his wake an array of painfully throbbing fingers.
Reginald Williams stood six feet three. He was wide and thick and boisterous, and there was a deep red tan on his face that actually served to exaggerate his bulk.