Just then, in spite of an effort to prevent it, Mike’s teeth chattered. Now that he had ceased walking he quickly became chilled. The woman noticed it and her warm sympathy instantly welled up.
“’Tis a shame that I kipt ye talking nonsense wid me while ye was shivering. Do ye walk straight into the house and war-r-m yersilf till I come, which will be in a jiffy whin I have the rest of me clothes hung out. And if ye’re hungry ye shall have food.”
“I thank ye, aunty, but I am not in need of that.”
Two small wooden steps were in front of the only door on that side of the neat little cottage. He pressed his thumb on the latch, pushed open the door and the next instant faced one of the greatest surprises of his life.
The lower floor consisted of two rooms, a kitchen and a general living room. The fire in the former would have been enough for the interior, but for the fact that a visitor had preceded Mike, and because of his presence a roaring fire was burning on the hearth. In front of this sat a young man leaning back in a rocking chair, with a bandaged leg resting on a pillow laid upon a second chair in front of him. He was smoking a cigarette, and despite the fact that something ailed him, looked quite comfortable.
As the door opened, his eyes met those of Mike Murphy, who halted with one foot over the threshold, started and exclaimed:
“Can I belave what me eyes tell me! Is it yersilf?”
The young man sitting before him, smoking and nursing his injured limb, was Orestes Noxon, whom Mike chased away from the Beartown post office the night before, and who received a part of the charge from the shotgun of Gerald Buxton.
The face of the injured youth flushed and he laughed nervously, but with amazing coolness answered:
“I guess you don’t need spectacles. You’ve got the best of me; I’m down and you’re up.”