“Crazy as a loon,” he muttered.
“Who? Me?”
“No, no!” cried Mr. Gooch hastily. “Don’t get excited now, Ollie. Keep calm. I’ll put the coffee pot on right away. Just you keep quiet—”
“Is that what you were feeling my head for?” demanded Mr. Baxter shrewdly.
“Not at all, not at all, just—affection, Ollie.”
“Umph! Well, I’m not crazy—not on your life. Hurry up with that coffee. Mind if I light my pipe?”
“Certainly not. Go ahead,” urged Mr. Gooch, whose antipathy to tobacco was so pronounced that no one ever thought of smoking in his house.
Mr. Baxter stretched out his wrinkled legs, and filled his pipe and lit it, all the while keeping his keen little eyes on his brother-in-law. Mr. Gooch splashed considerable water upon the hot stove as he filled the coffee pot. The visitor seemed to find pleasure in exhaling great clouds of rank-smelling smoke.
“Yes, sir,” he began presently; “I hunted this country over before I found her. She remembered everything. She even remembered you, Horace.” He cackled. “I’d hate to tell you what she said about you.”
Mr. Gooch was silent.