“If you touch me I will cane you,” said Mr. Alexander Herron.
There was nothing to do but step back. The cane, wheel, and a long coat skirt interfering, the old man fell headlong, and only quick hands saved him a severe jolt and bruises. He stood glaring in the moonlight while his hat was restored.
“If you run your car to the curve you can back toward the south and turn easily,” said the Harvester to the driver. As the automobile passed them he offered his arm. “May I show you to the fire? These spring nights are chilly.”
“'Chilly!' Demnition cold is what they are! I'm frozen to the bone! This will be the end of us both! Dragging people of our age around at this hour of night. Of all the accursed stubbornness!”
“There are three low steps,” said the Harvester, “now a straight stretch of walk, now two steps; there you are on the level. Here is an easy chair. It would be better to leave on your coat, until I light the fire.”
He knelt and scratched a match, and almost instantly a flame sprang from the heap of dry kindling, and began to wrap around the big logs.
“How pretty!” exclaimed a soft voice.
“Kind of a hunting lodge in the wilds, is it?” growled a rough one. “Marcella, you will take your death here!”
“I'm sure I feel no exposure. Really, Alexander, if I had passed away every time you have prophesied that I would in the past twenty years you'd have the largest private cemetery in existence. If you would not be so pessimistic I could quite enjoy the trip. It's so long since I've ridden in the cars.”
“Of all the abandoned places! And for you to be here, after your years in bed!”