“He's gone stark foolish at last!” she said, with decision. “Well, I've been expectin' it! Lute Rogers, stop pawin' yourself over and act sensible, if you can. What is the matter with you?”
“Matter with me! Nothin's the matter with ME; but there's somethin' the matter with other folks, I tell you that! Doctor Quimby's been there twice already, and the telephone's been goin', and—and—My time! you ought to seen her face! 'Twas just as white as—as—WHERE did I put that letter?”
His “pawing” became more frantic than ever. His wife stepped forward and seized him by the arm.
“Stop it, I tell you!” she commanded. “Stop it! Who's sick? Whose telephone's ringin'? What letter are you talkin' about? Answer me! Stop that Saint Vitus dancin' and answer me this minute!”
She gave him a shake and his cap fell to the floor. From it fell an envelope. Lute pulled himself free and pounced upon it.
“There 'tis!” he exclaimed. “By time! I was scart I'd lost it! Read it, Ros! read it!”
He handed me the envelope. It bore my name. I tore it open—took out the sheet of notepaper which it inclosed, and read as follows:
“Dear Mr. Paine:
“Father is very ill, and I am in great trouble. I think you, perhaps, can help us both. Will you come over at once? PLEASE do.
“Hastily yours,