“Take the fust turnin' to the left, marm,” he said pointing. “It's pretty nigh to East Trumet townhall. Fust house this side of the blacksmith shop. About two mile, I'd say. Windy day for drivin', ain't it? That horse of yours belongs in Bayport, I cal'late. Looks to me like—Hello, Bailey!”
“Hello, Josh!” grunted Mr. Bangs, adding an explanatory aside to the effect that he knew Josh Atwood, the latter having once lived in Bayport.
“But say,” he asked as they moved on once more, “have we got to go to EAST Trumet? Jerushy! that's the place where the wind COMES from. They raise it over there; anyhow, they don't raise much else. Whose house you goin' to?”
He had asked the same question at least ten times since leaving home, and each time Miss Dawes had evaded it. She did so now, saying that she was sure she should know the house when they got to it.
The two miles to East Trumet were worse than the twelve which they had come. The wind fairly shrieked here, for the road paralleled the edge of high sand bluffs close by the shore, and the ruts and “thank-you-marms” were trying to the temper. Bailey's was completely wrecked.
“Teacher,” he snapped as they reached the crest of a long hill, and a quick grab at his hat alone prevented its starting on a balloon ascension, “get out a spell, will you? I've got to swear or bust, and 'long's you're aboard I can't swear. What you standin' still for, you?” he bellowed at poor Henry, the horse, who had stopped to rest. “I cal'late the critter thinks that last cyclone must have blowed me sky high, and he's waitin' to see where I light. Git dap!”
“I guess I shall get out very soon now,” panted Phoebe. “There's the blacksmith shop over there near the next hill, and this house in the hollow must be the one I'm looking for.”
They pulled up beside the house in the hollow. A little, story-and-a-half house it was, and, judging by the neglected appearance of the weeds and bushes in the yard, it had been unoccupied for some time. However, the blinds were now open, and a few fowls about the back door seemed to promise that some one was living there. The wooden letter box by the gate had a name stenciled upon it. Miss Dawes sprang from the buggy and looked at the box.
“Yes,” she said. “This is the place. Will you come in, Mr. Bangs? You can put your horse in that barn, I'm sure, if you want to.”
But Bailey declined to come in. He declared he was going on to the blacksmith's shop to have that wheel fixed. He would not feel safe to start for home with it as it was. He drove off, and Miss Dawes, knowing from lifelong experience that front doors are merely for show, passed around the main body of the house and rapped on the door in the ell. The rap was not answered, though she could hear some one moving about within, and a shrill voice singing “The Sweet By and By.” So she rapped again and again, but still no one came to the door. At last she ventured to open it.