“And quit rattling your teeth,” was the further command. “For that’s the way you chipped them last Christmas. And goodness knows we haven’t any money to fool away on unnecessary dentist bills.”
Poppy and I were grinning. Maybe it wasn’t the best of manners, but we couldn’t hold in.
“Oh, dear!” the woman went on in misery, sort of wringing her hands. “What wouldn’t I give to know at this minute where Miss Ruth is. I’ll forever feel guilty if any harm has befallen her through Pa’s stupidity.”
“Maybe,” Poppy spoke up, “he missed her in Pardyville.”
“But where did he get that gander? And why hasn’t she followed him in a rented car?”
“The road’s closed.”
“But he got through. And there’s the telephone. If Miss Ruth is in Pardyville, and can’t get here except on the south road through Neponset Corners and New Zion, why doesn’t she telephone? She might know I would worry until I did hear from her.”
“Hot dog!” cried Poppy. “That’s an idea. Why don’t you telephone, Mrs. Doane? You can call up the Pardyville depot. See? And the garages, too. You ought to get track of the girl in that way.”
The woman was too much worked up to use the telephone herself, so we did the job for her. But to no success. The night operator hadn’t been at the depot when the Chicago train came in—we’d have to talk with the day operator, he said. There was no one registered at either of the two hotels by the name of Miss Ruth Danver. Nor had any of the garages, or the taxicab company, been approached by a girl of that name, or for that matter any girl of any name, wanting to go into the country.
Our failure to get good news over the telephone completely upset the woman.