CHAPTER V
The storm had kept Northrup indoors for many hours each day, but he had put those hours to good use.
He outlined his plot; read and worked. He felt that he was becoming part of the quiet life of the inn and the Forest, but more and more he was becoming an object of intense but unspoken interest.
“He’s writing a book!” Aunt Polly confided to Peter. “But he doesn’t want anything said about it.”
“He needn’t get scared. I like him too well to let on and I reckon one thing’s as good as another to tell us. I lay my last dollar, Polly, on this: he’s after Maclin; not with him. I’m thinking the Forest will get a shake-up some day and I’m willing to bide my time. Writing a book! Him, a full-blooded young feller, writing a book. Gosh! Why don’t he take to knitting?”
Northrup also sent a letter to Manly. He realized that he might set his conscience at rest by keeping his end of the line open, but he wanted to have one steady hand, at least, at the other end.
“Until further notice,” he wrote to Manly, “I’m here, and let it go at that. Should there be any need, even the slightest, get in touch with me. As for the rest, I’ve found myself, Manly. I’m getting acquainted, and working like the devil.”
Manly read the letter, grinned, and put it in a box marked “Confidential, but unimportant.”
Then he leaned back in his chair, and before he relegated Northrup to “unimportant,” gave him two or three thoughts.