Rebecca walked into Phœbe's room, which she found darkened like her own. Her sister was in bed.
"What ever happened to you?" Phœbe asked. "Sounded as though ye'd fallen down or somethin'."
Rebecca stood stiffly with her back to the closed door, her hands folded before her.
"Copernicus Droop is tight! Dead drunk!" she exclaimed, with a shaking voice.
"Drunk!" cried Phœbe. "Lands sakes!—an'—" She looked about her with alarm. "Then what's happened to the machine?" she asked.
"Whirlin', whirlin', same as ever! Cuttin' meridians or sausage meat fer all I care. I jest wish to goodness an' all creation I'd never ben sech a plumb born nateral fool as to—oh, wouldn't I like to jest shake that man!" she broke out, letting her anger gain the upper hand.
Then Phœbe recalled their situation and their expectations of the night before.
"Why, then I ought to be gettin' little pretty fast," she said, feeling her arms. "I don't see's I've shrunk a mite, hev I?"
"No more'n I hev!" Rebecca exclaimed, hotly. "Nor you won't, nuther. Ye might jest's well make up yer mind to it thet the whole business is foolish folderols. We're a nice couple o' geese, we are, to come out here to play 'Here we go round the mulberry bush' with the North Pole—an' all along of a shif'less, notorious slave o' rum!"
She plumped herself into a chair and glared at the darkened window as though fascinated by those ever-returning flashes of sunlight.