“No, Dick, we don’t know which way to go. If we knew we would. Perhaps he will not come at all, and I’m too tired to go far to-night.”
Dick bent down and stroked Tibb, the great black cat, which began to purr.
“Put on a few more turves, Dick, and a bit or two of wood,” said his mother. “Mr Marston may be cold.”
Dick laid a few pieces of the resinous pine-root from the fen upon the fire, and built up round it several black squares of well-dried peat where the rest glowed and fell away in a delicate creamy ash. Then the fir-wood began to blaze, and he returned to his seat.
“’Tatoes is done!” said a voice at the door, and the red-armed maid stood waiting for orders to bring them in.
“Put them in a dish, Sarah, and keep them in the oven with the door open. When Mr Marston comes you can put them in the best wooden bowl, and cover them with a clean napkin before you bring them in,” said Mrs Winthorpe.
“Oh, I say, mother, I am so hungry! Mayn’t I have one baked potato?”
“Surely you can wait, my boy, till our visitor comes,” said Mrs Winthorpe quietly.
Dick stared across at the maid as she was closing the door, and a look of intelligence passed between them, one which asked a question and answered it; and Dick knew that if he went into the great kitchen there would be a mealy potato ready for him by the big open fireplace, with butter ad libitum, and pepper and salt.
Dick sat stroking the cat for a few minutes and then rose, to go to the long low casement bay-window, draw aside the curtain, and look out over the black fen.