“Wait a moment; I’ll see that all goes well down there,” answered Mrs. Carruth, soothingly, and slipping away from the room she went into the deserted Bee-hive to ’phone to the Arcade. After considerable delay she got Mr. Porter and told him the situation. He was all interest, and begged her to tell Charles that if necessary he himself would mount guard over the luncheon counter. She next called Hadyn, and asked him to let her know how all went at the candy booth. He assured her that all was well, but that business did not seem to be flourishing.
“Will you please tell Miss Boggs to close it for the day and to go home at once, Hadyn? The storm grows worse every moment, I believe, and if she remains there any longer she may not be able to get home.”
“I’ll tell her, and I’ll see that she gets home, too. Don’t worry, little mother. I’ll be down a little later to see how you all fare.”
“Oh, no! No! Don’t try to come. We are all right, and you must not try to drive here in this awful storm. Promise me that you won’t, Hadyn.”
“Can’t make rash promises, and Comet has breasted even worse storms than this,” was the laughing answer. “Who is looking after your furnace, now that Charles is down and out?”
“Mr. Henry’s man. He was here this morning, and will be back this evening. We lack nothing, and we don’t want you under any circumstances. Please, say you won’t try to come.”
“Not unless——” Then there was a whirr and one or two disconnected words and the connection broke short off. No wires could long withstand the weight of ice and snow and the force of wind wrenching at them. Mrs. Carruth tried again and again to get the connection, but all to no purpose, and with a strange apprehension in her heart she returned to Charles’ bedside to reassure him regarding his luncheon counter.
At noon the doctor called to see Charles, and during Mammy’s absence from the room Mrs. Carruth contrived to have a word with him.
“He’s a pretty old man, and took big chances yesterday. If it were only the rheumatism I had to contend with, I should not feel the least concern for him. That is painful, I know, but not dangerous, as it has settled in his limbs; but I don’t like this temperature and breathing. Yet I dare say, if I use a stethoscope, he will think he is a dead man already. These colored people are difficult patients to handle, what with their ignorance and their emotional temperaments they are far worse than children, for we can compel children to do as we think best.”
Mrs. Carruth smiled. “You do not know the ante-bellum negro,” she said.