“Didn't you recognize them? One was Phil Somers—son of the rich widow who owns the big cottage at Harniss. 'Tother is a bird of the same flock down visitin' em. Carver's takin' 'em over to Ostable to say good-by to another specimen, a college mate, who is migratin' to Europe tomorrow. The chauffeur told Dan, my man, about it this afternoon. The chauffeur figgered that, knowin' the crowd, 'twas likely to be a lively farewell. Hello! there's Abbie hailin' me. See you later, Ros.”
I knew young Somers by reputation. He and his friends were a wild set, if report was true.
Eldredge had hinted that he intended arranging an interview between Colton and myself. The prospect did not appeal to me. At first I decided to go home at once, but something akin to Captain Dean's resentful stubbornness came over me. I would not be driven home by those people. I found an unoccupied camp chair—one of Sim's, which he rented for funerals—and carried it to a dark spot in the shrubbery near the border of the parsonage lawn and not far from the gate. There I seated myself, lit a cigar and smoked in solitude.
Elnathan Mullet, evidently considering his labors as door-keeper over, was counting his takings by lantern light. The moon was low in the west and a little breeze was now stirring the shrubbery. It was very warm for the season and I mentally prophesied thunder showers before morning.
I had smoked my cigar perhaps half through when a carriage came down the road and stopped before the gate. The driver leaned forward and called to Mullet.
“Hi, Uncle!” he shouted. “You, by the gate! Is Mr. Colton here?”
Elnathan, who was, apparently, half asleep, looked up.
“Hey?” he queried. “Mr. Colton? Yes, he's here. Want him, do you?”
“Yes. Where is he?”
“Up yonder somewheres. There he is, by Sarah Burgess's table. Mr. Colton! Mr. Col—ton! Somebody wants ye!”