There was no doubt about the chill. Solomon's face and hands were blue and he was shaking from head to foot. But his determination was unshaken. He strode to the door.
“How do I get to Parker's?” he demanded.
“I tell you you mustn't go to Parker's or anywhere else. You're riskin' your life.”
Mr. Cobb did not answer. He lifted the latch and pulled the door open. A howling gust of wind-driven rain beat in upon him, drenching the carpet and causing the lamp to flicker and smoke. For a moment Solomon gazed out into the storm; then he relinquished his hold and staggered back.
“I—I can't do it!” he groaned. “I've GOT to stay here! I've GOT to!”
Thankful, exerting all her strength, closed the door and locked it. “Indeed you've got to,” she declared. “Now go out into the kitchen and set by the stove while I heat a kettle and make you some ginger tea or somethin'.”
Solomon hesitated.
“He must, Aunt Thankful,” urged Emily; “he really must.”
The visitor turned to stare at her.
“Who are you?” he demanded, ungraciously. Then, as another chill racked him from head to foot, he added: “I don't care. Take me somewheres and give me somethin'—ginger tea or—or kerosene or anything else, so it's hot. I—I'm—sho—oo—ook all to—pi—ic—ces.”