He could not master details. He only knew something had happened. Joyce was going to leave Gaston and go to Jude, and he, Billy, must make the way easy, and stand by her as a gentleman should. He patted her arm reassuringly as he thought it out.
"It's 'most night," he said; "I'll hitch up old Tate's mare to the sled. He won't know! It's going to be a big night down to the Black Cat. I'll drive you over to Jude—and wait for yer, if yer say so. If yer don't, then I'll cut back—and I don't care after that."
"Billy!"
"When will you be ready?"
Joyce glanced at the clock.
"It's after six now. I'll be ready when you get back, Billy!"
A moment later Billy had set forth in the black coldness.
It was eight o'clock that evening when the revellers at the Black Cat heard a crunching of the snow as a sled rapidly passed the tavern.
Leon Tate was mixing drinks, with a practised and obliging hand, when the unaccustomed sound struck his ear; he paused, but when the unappreciative driver passed, he lost interest.
"Thought some one was coming?" Tom Smith suggested.