But Baxter came not. His room was empty. Mr. Pett descended and found his host out by the wood-pile, splitting kindling. Canada Jake had seen nothing whatever of the young man. He opined that the youth most ’ave got up airlee, go feeshin’.
Reuben Pett went back and reported to Samantha Spaulding through the door. Samantha’s voice came back to him as a voice from the bottom sub-cellar of abysmal gloom.
“Reuben,” she said; “them women have been here!”
“Why, Samantha!” he said; “it ain’t possible!”
“I heard them last night,” returned Samantha, in tones of conviction. “I know, now. I did. I thought then I was dreamin’.”
“Most likely you was, too!” said Mr. Pett, encouragingly.
“Well, I wa’n’t!” rejoined Mrs. Spaulding, with a suddenness and an acerbity that made her listener jump. “They’ve stole my clothes!”
“Whatever do you mean, Samantha?” roared Reuben Pett.
“I mean,” said Mrs. Spaulding, in a tone that left no doubt whatever that what she did mean she meant very hard; “I mean that that hussy has been here in the night, and has took every stitch and string of my clothing, and ain’t left me so much as a button-hole, except—except—except—”