“How many, do you think?”
“Perhaps fifteen or twenty.”
“They must be provided for,” said the man. “There’s the hotel. It’s old and rickety and don’t accommodate half a dozen comfortably; but it’ll give them a roof, some kind of a shakedown, and a warm meal to brace them up.”
“How much the cost?” broke in a sudden voice, and the fat man with the life preservers trundled into view.
“How much for what?” demanded the other, staring in astonishment at the odd figure the stout passenger made with his armor of cork life preservers.
“For lodging and meals. I won’t pay much. Look at my clothes! All soaked,—and what of my baggage back on that pesky steamer? I won’t be robbed! I’ll sue everybody! I shan’t pay a cent!”
“You won’t have to,” assured the man. “The hospitality of this town comes free, gratis, for nothing, on such an occasion as this.”
Tom told Bill of the arrangements in order, and then reported to Grace. He had never admired the little lady as much as now, as he noted her kindly soothing treatment of her nervously-unstrung aunt, her pretty obliging ways in seeing to the care of an old lady with a crutch and a young woman with a frightened child in her arms, as the ’bus drove up.
“Aunt Bertha is dreadfully nervous,” she said to Tom. “She says she will abandon the trip entirely now, will never venture on the water again, and wants to get to Fernwood right away, for she knows she is going to be ill.”
“It is quite a trip to your home from here, Grace,” explained Tom. “I might get a vehicle somewhere, but the roads must be almost impassable in places, and the storm isn’t over yet. If I were you, I would try and induce your aunt to remain at Brookville till morning. I know you will both be taken care of by these good people.”