“My name is Northrup, Brace Northrup from New York.”
“Footing it?” Heathcote was rapidly making one of his sudden estimates; generally he did not take the trouble to do this, but some people called forth his approval or disapproval at once.
“Yes. I’ve taken my time, been a week on the way and, incidentally, recovering from an illness.”
“Pausing or staying on?”
Northrup meant to say “pausing”; instead he found himself stating that he’d like to stay on if he could be accommodated.
“We’ll have to consult Aunt Polly as to that,” said Heathcote. “You see I’m rather off my legs just now. Gander! Great bird, that gander. He lit out two weeks ago and cut me to the bone with his wing. He’s got a wing like a hatchet. I’ll be about in a day or two and taking command, but until then I have to let my sister have her say as to what burdens she feels she can carry.”
For a moment Northrup regarded himself, mentally, as a burden. It was a new sensation and he felt like putting up a plea; but before he could frame one Heathcote gave a low whistle and almost at once a door at the rear opened, admitting a fragrance of delectable food and the smallest woman Northrup had ever seen. That so fragile a creature could bear any responsibility outside that due herself, was difficult to comprehend until one looked into the strange, clear eyes peering through glasses, set awry. Unquenchable youth and power lay deep in those piercing eyes; there was force that could command the slight body to do its bidding.
“Polly, this is Mr. Northrup, from New York”––was there 11 lurking amusement in the tone?––“He wants to stop on; what do you say? It’s up to you and don’t hesitate to speak your mind.”
The woman regarded the candidate for her favour much as she might have a letter of introduction; quite impersonally but decidedly judicially.
“If Mr. Northrup will take pot luck and as is, I think he can stay, brother.”