“Ma! Is that you, Ma?” and a fumbling hand felt around in the air.
“Pa, what have you done with Miss Ruth? Where is she?”
“Miss Ruth?” came vaguely.
“You went to the train to meet her. Where is she?”
“Miss Ruth?” the voice faltered, as its groggy owner, now sitting up, tried to explore his clogged mind for the truth. “Did—did I—I see Miss Ruth, Ma? I’ve plum furgot. It seems to me I did; an’ then it seems to me I didn’t. Now, Ma,” came whiningly, like a little kid begging off, “please don’t scold. You always scold. I guess I’ve furgot somethin’ ag’in. I’m always furgittin’ somethin’ or other. But I’ll go back an’ git it, if you’ll jest tell me what ’twas.”
The woman’s anger got the best of her sympathy.
“Ivor Doane! If you aren’t the dumbest numskull I ever heard tell of.” Then she seemed to go to pieces. “Oh, dear!” she wailed, turning to us for help. “Do you suppose he has lost Miss Ruth somewhere along the road? What shall I do? What shall I do?”
Suddenly I felt something nip the calf of my leg. Boy, did I ever jump. And when I looked down, there was the injured man’s goose. It was wanting attention, I guess!
“The goose! The goose!” I yipped like a dumb-bell.
But Poppy had better eyes than me.