“Just one year, six months and twenty-one days,” said he.
“Good Lord, Sam! Have you gone off your nut, too?”
“Vital statistics, old boy. It’s my business, you know. Come on; I’ve got my car out here. Your father’s Ford died last fall and he’s been an orphan ever since. Grab up some of this junk and I’ll bring the rest. Never mind, Mr. Baxter. We can manage it.”
“Drop me at the store,” said old Oliver crossly.
Sammy gave young Oliver a significant look. “All right, Mr. Baxter. We’ll wait outside for you. I’ve got nothing but time on my hands to-day, and besides I want to talk to Oliver about a—er—something private.”
As the two young men hurried across the platform with the bags and bundles, Sammy found opportunity to say to Oliver:
“He’ll be in a good humor in a minute or two. It’s just a habit he’s fallen into since you’ve been away. I guess it’s that infernal gypsy business. He’s as peevish as blazes a good part of the time.”
They stopped in front of the Baxter store and the old man reluctantly got out of the car. It was plain to be seen that he had not intended to stop there at all but was now obliged to do so to save his face.
“I won’t be a minute,” he said, affecting a briskness that was calculated to deceive his son. Then he darted into the store, where, from a shadowy corner in the stove section, he shifted his uneasy gaze from the clock on the wall to the car at the curb.
“How’s your wife, Sam?” inquired Oliver.