“Now it’s the wind,” said Bat, to himself. “And I am up to my eyebrows for sure.”
“Frederic,” and Miss Hohenlo turned to her nephew, “see if you can catch the wind’s direction.”
Obediently the young man left the side of Miss Knowles.
“It’s from the northwest, I think,” said he. “Yes, look there. Those tall birches are stirring; you can see their tops against the sky.”
“What wonderful sight you have, my dear,” said his aunt, as she fixed her eye-glasses upon her insignificant nose, and strove to see the tree tops he mentioned. “You must inherit it from your father’s family, for ours have never seen very clearly.” She looked out into the dusk with much affectation of fear. “Oh, dear, isn’t it very lonely out there?” she said. “Darkness does make such a change, doesn’t it, Mr. Scanlon?”
“One time,” said Mr. Scanlon, “when I had nothing else to do, I took a short whirl at a theatrical enterprise in Dodge City. And that showed me something fresh about the effects of darkness. Flood the stage with light and you couldn’t stir a thrill in the audience, no matter to what histrionic lengths you went. But put on the shadows and you began to get them; shut off the lights altogether, and you could feel things creeping right over the footlights.”
“Could you really?” Miss Hohenlo was extremely juvenile in her gestures of terror. “It must have been dreadful!” Then to her nephew: “You are quite sure it’s from the northwest, Frederic?”
“Yes, quite sure,” replied the young man a trifle impatiently. He had gone back to the girl once more and taken up the low-pitched conversation.
“Perhaps,” said Miss Hohenlo, “it might change.”
Young Campe did not hear this, so Mr. Scanlon said, reassuringly: