Captain Obed finished the letter.
“Whew!” he whistled. “He's in hard luck, ain't he?”
Thankful wrung her hands. “Yes,” she answered, “and I must help him somehow. But how I'm goin' to do it just now I don't see. But I must, of course. He's my brother and I MUST.”
“Sartin you must. We—er—that is, that can be fixed all right. Humph! He sent this to you at South Middleboro, didn't he, and 'twas forwarded. Let's see when he wrote it. . . . Eh? Why, 'twas written two months ago! Where in the world has it been all this time?”
“I don't know. I can't think. And he says he is in San Francisco, and the postmark on that envelope is Omaha, Nebraska.”
“Land of love, so 'tis. And the postmark date is only four days back. Why did he hang on to the thing for two months afore he mailed it? And how did it get to Omaha?”
“I don't know. All I can think of is that he gave the letter to somebody else to mail and that somebody forgot it. That's all I can think of. I can't really think of anything after a shock like this. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! The poor, helpless, incompetent thing! He's probably starved to death by this time and it's all my fault. I NEVER should have let him go. What SHALL I do? Wasn't there enough without this?”
For the first time Thankful's troubles overcame her courage and self-restraint. She put her handkerchief to her eyes.
The captain was greatly upset. He jammed his hands into his pockets, took them out again, reached for his own handkerchief, blew his nose violently, and began pacing up and down the room. Suddenly he seemed to have made up his mind.
“Mrs. Barnes,” he said, “I—I—”