Mr. Baxter got up from the chair into which Serepty had forced him and shook hands with his relatives.
“You’ve—you’ve been drinking, Oliver,” exclaimed Mrs. Gooch, horrified.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if I had,” admitted Oliver. “It isn’t every day a feller has a—Why, good evening, Mrs. Sage. I didn’t see you come in. Where’s Mr. Sage? Ain’t he—”
“Sit down in that chair, Oliver Baxter,” commanded Mrs. Grimes. “I’m going to wrap this blanket around you.” She relieved Mr. Gooch of one of the blankets and proceeded to tuck Mr. Baxter snugly into the rocking chair. “Then I’ll get the mustard bath. Now, you sit still, do you hear me? Mary and the baby are all right. Make yourselves at home, everybody. And you, Joe Sikes, answer the door if anybody knocks.”
She snatched the other blanket away from Gooch and hurried to the kitchen. After an awkward pause, rendered painful by the presence of the two Gooches, the company made a simultaneous effort to break the ice that suddenly had clogged the flow of conversation.
“Eighteen miles through all this—”
“From your telegram we thought a death had—”
“It’s an ill wind that blows no—”
“That’s a mighty fine pair of mares you—”
“Nobody likely to knock at the—”