“Well, how do you happen to be running things if you are not? You act as if—”
“When did Mary die?” asked Mr. Gooch, throwing his great ulster upon the dining-table.
“She ain’t dead,” was all the astonished Mr. Sikes could say. “Not by a long sight.”
“Well, of all the—” began Mr. Gooch, compressing his lips. “And we drove nearly eighteen miles through all this dodgasted weather to be a support and a comfort to Ollie Baxter in his trouble. You say she ain’t dead?”
“Certainly not. Whatever put that notion in your head?”
“We had a telegram along about noon signed by Oliver, saying his wife was not expected to live through the day. All hope had been given up,” said Mrs. Gooch, beginning to cry.
“That’s just like the derned fool,” said Mr. Sikes. “He can’t believe his own eyes, he’s so excited. Why, Mary and the baby are both as lively as crickets. I heard—”
“The baby?” fell simultaneously from the lips of Mr. and Mrs. Gooch. Both mouths remained open.
“What baby?” added Mrs. Gooch, spreading her tear-drenched eyes.
“Why, her’s and Ollie’s—Say, didn’t you know they had a baby this morning?”