Tommy obeyed and opened the outer door a few inches only, with the instinctive caution of childhood, and peeped through the gap.
“Fer your Mammy, Tommy,” said the station carman, indicating an enormous package at his feet.
In his excitement Tommy forgot all about being careful and flung open the kitchen door. A gust of wind seized the feathers and whirled them round the room. Mrs. Tregennis’s anger was checked by the entrance of the carman, swaying with a square, solid-looking package done up in sacking. When he dumped it down on the kitchen floor more feather flew, but by this time Mrs. Tregennis was past thinking of flying feathers.
“’N what is this, Sam?” she demanded, “a joke?”
“’Tis a pretty heavy joke,” said the carman, first straightening his shoulders, then with a large, red handkerchief wiping condensation drops from his moustache, “’n a joke as has cost some folks good money to send from London.”
“Then there do be some mistake, Sam Trimble, for I know no one to London, an’ this’ll not be mine.”
But the address on the label showed plainly that the package was indeed for Mrs. T. Tregennis, of Chapel Garth.
Even the goose was forgotten when Sam Trimble had closed the door behind him. Mrs. Tregennis washed her fingers so hurriedly under the tap that she left red streaks on the runnerin’ towel when she dried her hands there.
“Have you had the scissors, Tommy? Find Mammy’s scissors, quick, ma handsome.”