He reached the turnpike without meeting any of the fellows, and after ten or fifteen minutes’ tramping along the straight, level road he paused to shift the basket to the other arm. It was heavier than he thought. Overhead the gray sky was a bit dispiriting, and the sharp, chill wind, blowing across the open fields, made him glad he had buttoned his sweater beneath the khaki coat.
Presently he began to speculate on what sort of reception he would have, and for the first time the possibility occurred to him that his welcome might not be altogether cordial. You never could tell what point of view the cranky old man would take. He thought of the dogs, too, especially after he had left the main road and turned into the less frequented one leading past Grimstone’s place. More than once people had been chased by them, and it wasn’t exactly pleasant to picture them rushing out at him in a body the moment he set foot in the lane.
Nevertheless, it did not occur to him to turn back. He had set out with a definite purpose, and he meant to carry it through. To be sure, just before reaching the lane he cut himself a stout stick, and as the old, weather-beaten frame house came in sight he unconsciously made his approach as noiseless as possible. He was surprised and not a little relieved to see no signs of the animals, but when he set down his basket and knocked briskly on the back door, the snarling uproar that instantly arose inside plainly advertised their whereabouts.
Dale tightened his grip on the stick and strained his ears for other sounds. He had raised his hand for a second knock when the barking suddenly lessened a little, and above the racket came a growling admonition in Grimstone’s harsh tones:
“Wal, come in, can’t you? Are you deaf?”
CHAPTER IX
AN ODD THANKSGIVING
The note of ill temper in the voice was so apparent that Dale hesitated for a second longer. Then, with a determined movement of his head, he set his stick against the door-casing, picked up the basket, and stepped into the kitchen. It was a long, low room, the walls and ceiling painted a dirty gray. Two of the three windows were tightly shuttered, so that Dale could barely make out the bent figure seated in a rocking-chair beside a rusty, decrepit cook-stove. At his entrance the three dogs began to bark again, but old Grimstone silenced them with a fierce gesture that sent them cowering under a table.
“What d’ you want?” he demanded, glaring at the boy from under bushy brows. “I don’t want to buy nothin’, so you’d better git out.”
“I haven’t anything–for sale,” returned the boy, finding it a little difficult to explain his errand. “It–it’s your Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Dinner!” snapped the old man. “What are you talkin’ about? I ain’t ordered nothin’ from town.”