“Chicken Little, your theory is all right, but it doesn’t seem to work,” Sherm remarked regretfully.
333In the meanwhile, time had also been moving along at the ranch. The big sitting room at the cottage was brightly lighted and glowingly warm from an open wood fire. By eight o’clock, coffee was steaming on the back of the kitchen stove, the extension table pulled out to its full length, was set with soup plates and cups and silver. Piles of doughnuts and baskets of apples and walnuts stood awaiting the sharp appetites the Mortons knew the cold ride would bring to them. Marian had the milk and oysters ready for the stew and sat down to rest a moment before the arrival of the guests. She hardly noticed the clock until the hand pointed to half-past eight.
“My, they’re late!” she exclaimed.
Frank got up and went to the door. He encountered Dr. Morton just coming in.
“When did you say those youngsters were coming? It’s snowing like fury.” He paused on the porch to give himself another shake.
“I don’t believe they’ll try to come out to-night. I guess you’ve had all your trouble for nothing. I only wish Chicken Little and Sherm had come home with you.”
Frank, being a good many years nearer to understanding the rashness of youth than his father, disagreed with him.
“I bet they tried all right, but they may have had 334to give it up. I wonder how long it’s been snowing this way. I haven’t been out since supper.”
Dr. Morton sat and visited for a half hour, then said he guessed he’d better go back to Mother. She was worrying a little about her baby being out such a night.
“She needn’t,” he concluded, “even a child like Jane would have sense enough not to start on a nine-mile ride in such weather.”