The appearance of Mrs. Cole, with Dorothy in her arms, was the signal for another outbreak, and perhaps Dorothy’s manifest ill-humor was fortunate on the whole, for something of the sort was needed to bring the excited household down to the wholesome plane of every-day living. Camping out did not agree with Dorothy. She had caught a slight cold from her wetting, and her night’s rest had been far from satisfactory. And now to be seized and passed from hand to hand like a box of candy, while people kissed and cried over her, was too much for her long-tried temper. She screamed and struggled and finally put a stop to further affectionate demonstrations by slapping Amy with one hand, while with the other she knocked off Aunt Abigail’s spectacles.
“She’s tired to death, poor little angel,” cried Mrs. Cole, generously ignoring the fact that Dorothy’s conduct was the reverse of angelic. “She wants to get to bed and to sleep, and so do the rest of you, before Lucy and me have the lot sick on our hands.”
“Oh, I couldn’t sleep,” protested Peggy, “and I want to wait till Jerry comes, and find out if he stopped Joe from sending that telegram.”
“And we’re dying to hear everything that’s happened,” Amy cried, “and, besides, I’m afraid to go to sleep for fear I’ll dream that this is only a dream.”
But Mrs. Cole was firm, and Lucy Haines, who had come to the cottage before sunrise, added her entreaties to the older woman’s insistence. Then everybody discovered that Peggy was very pale, and Dorothy did some more slapping, and Mrs. Cole’s motion was carried. Although every girl of them, and Aunt Abigail as well, had protested her utter inability to sleep, it was not fifteen minutes before absolute quiet reigned in the second story of the cottage. Wheels ground up the driveway again and again, and penetrating, if kindly, voices made inquiries under the open windows, but none of the sleepers waked till noon.
Jerry Morton, coming to report the success of his mission, was more than a little disappointed not to secure an immediate interview with Peggy. But Lucy, who was peeling potatoes in anticipation of the time when hunger should act as an alarm clock, in the hushed second story, bade him sit down and wait. “I know she’ll want to see you. She was so worried for fear the news would get to her mother.”
“Well, it came mighty near it, I can tell you. Joe was just ahead of me. When I got in he was saying to the operator, ‘Rush this, will you?’ and I grabbed his coat and said nix.” Jerry’s tired face lighted up with satisfaction, and Lucy regarded him rather enviously. It seemed to her that Jerry was getting more than his share. He had found the castaways, and had spared Friendly Terrace the shock of the mistaken news, while Lucy with equally good will, was forced to content herself with peeling potatoes and like humble services.
“How did you ever come to think of looking for them?” she asked, wishing that the happy idea had occurred to her, instead of to Jerry.
“I didn’t. ’Twas just a stroke of luck.” Jerry told the story of his night’s wandering, a recital as interesting to himself as to Lucy, for as yet he had hardly had time to formulate the record of what had happened. Before they had exhausted the fascinating theme there were sounds overhead which told that the late sleepers were at last astir.
They kept open house at Dolittle Cottage that afternoon. The country community, aroused by the news of the supposed tragedy, and then by the word that all was well, gave itself up to rejoicing. Vehicles of every description creaked up the driveway, bringing whole families to offer their congratulations. Though farm work was pressing, Mr. Silas Robbins drove over with his wife and daughter, and patted Peggy’s shoulder, and pinched Dorothy’s cheek. Luckily a morning in bed had done much to restore Dorothy to her normal mood, and though she bestowed a withering glance upon the gentleman who had taken this liberty, she did not retaliate in the fashion Peggy feared.