“Poor Oliver has done nothing but pray since daybreak. He’s worn himself out with prayer. I had to go out in the hall a while ago and tell him to shut up. Make yourselves at home, everybody. I’ll be back in—my land!”
Mr. Baxter, coatless, disheveled and in a state of extreme anguish, came plunging down the stairs and into the room.
“Whe-where’s the doctor?” he gasped. “My God, where’s Doc Robinson? He’s dying! Hurry up, Serepty! My infant is dying! Oh me, oh my—oh me—”
“Where is your coat, Oliver Baxter?” demanded little Mrs. Grimes, severely. “Do you want to catch your death of cold?”
“Coat? Say, can’t you hear him? He is calling for help. Listen! Sh! Listen, everybody.” Then after a long period of silence in which everybody frowned and listened intently, and no sound came from aloft, he groaned: “Oh, Lord! He’s dead! Dead as a door nail!”
“I guess it was the wind you heard, Ollie,” said Mr. Link, brightly.
For the first time, Mr. Baxter allowed his gaze to concentrate upon some definite object. He stared at the undertaker-livery man, and his jaw dropped lower than ever.
“The—the undertaker,” he gulped. “How—how did you get here so soon, Silas? He ain’t been dead more than thirty seconds. He didn’t die till—”
“Calm yourself, Oliver,” admonished Mrs. Grimes, but soothingly. “Sit down. It’s nothing but a pin. I’ll go up to him as soon as I’ve fixed you.” She thrust the blankets into Mr. Gooch’s arms. “Hold these,” she said. “Come over here by the stove, Oliver. Sit down. I’ll go fix a hot mustard bath for you to stick your feet in. Give me one of those blankets—oh, excuse me, I didn’t notice you were a stranger. Who—”
“This is Ollie’s brother-in-law, Serepty,” explained Mr. Sikes. “Say, Ollie, I’ve got a great surprise for you. Your sister and her husband have come over from Hopkinsville to wish you many happy returns of the day.”