But there must have been some delay about sending the money, for it had not arrived by six o’clock. Carl hung about the telegraph office all the evening, growing uneasy once more as hour by hour went by. Surely something had not gone wrong at the last minute!
But the money-bearing message did finally arrive towards ten o’clock. It was an order for $612, which included the returns from what was left of their comb-honey crop. The telegraph clerk wrote a check, and Carl and his sister hastened to Farr’s house. It was dark from top to bottom. Carl knocked loudly once, twice. There was no reply.
CHAPTER VIII
A RUN OF LUCK
Again and again Carl hammered at the door. At last some one raised a window in the second story, and a voice called down rather crossly through the darkness.
“It’s Harman!” Carl cried. “I’ve come to pay your money.”
“Too late. I’m abed,” answered Mr. Farr. “Come in to-morrow.”
“Not much!” retorted Carl. “It’s due before midnight to-day, and you said you wouldn’t give me an hour’s extra time. I’m not taking any chances. I’m afraid you’ll have to get up.”
Mr. Farr chuckled and left the window. They heard him stirring about, and presently saw the light of a lamp. In a few minutes he opened the front door and conducted them into the sitting-room. His hair was tousled, and he was in his stocking-feet and looked older and more wizened than ever, but something seemed to be amusing him greatly.
Carl produced the telegraph check. Mr. Farr scrutinized it carefully, chuckled once more, wrote a receipt, and gave them a check of his own in change.
“I’m obleeged for the money,” he said, smiling broadly, “but you needn’t have been in such an all-fired hurry with it.”