Marley wagged his head with a judicial air.
“That’ll kill her,” he remarked, as though stating a self-evident, but commonplace, fact. “That’ll kill her.”
“I’m afraid it will,” the master mechanic admitted gravely. “But there’s nothing else to do. It’s impossible for her to stay here. She’s got to have some one to look after her, and she has no money. God knows I wish we could, but we can’t see any other way than put her in some place like that.”
“I thought you would if it turned out bad,” said Marley again, in dead tones. “I figured it out that way when you were gone.” His hands were traveling in an aimless fashion in and out of his pockets. Suddenly he half pulled out an envelope, started, hastily shoved it back, and looked at Regan. “I—I got a letter to post,” he muttered.
“Well, supposing you have,” said Regan a little savagely—Regan wasn’t interested in letters just then,—“supposing you have, you needn’t——”
But Marley was well across the street.
The master mechanic gasped angrily, choked—and went into Mrs. Dahleen’s cottage on his errand. It was wasted breath to talk to Marley anyhow.
It didn’t take long for the news to spread around Big Cloud, and for three days they talked about Mrs. Coogan pretty constantly—after that they talked about Marley.
The Westbound Limited schedules Big Cloud for 2: 05 in the afternoon, and on the third day after Mrs. Coogan’s return Marley came down the street about half-past one, and crossed the tracks to the shops. Regan was in the fitting-shop when Marley walked in.
“I’d like to speak to you,” said Marley, going straight up to the master mechanic.