She fully intended to return to Stewart Island the following day, but when she awoke the next morning it was to find that a drizzling rain had set in. Everyone stayed close in except Old Bill who was forced to drive to town for supplies and mail. The roads were muddy and he did not get back until after dark.
“Any letters?” Madge demanded eagerly.
“Not for you,” he told her crossly, pitching a heavy sack of flour from his shoulder to the kitchen floor with such violence that it sent up a white cloud of dust.
“There’s some pie in the oven,” Madge said sweetly. “I know you must be hungry and tired.” Her eye had fastened upon a slim, white envelope protruding from his hip pocket. “You do have a letter!”
“It ain’t fer you, I said.” Bill spoke more pleasantly for the mention of pie had softened his ill temper. He took the letter from his pocket and holding it to the light, squinted curiously at the postmark. “It’s for that gal, Anne Fairaday. The postmaster told me to give it to her. Looks important too, comin’ from New York.”
“Bill Ramey!” Mrs. Brady interposed. “You’re worse than a rural mail carrier when it comes to curiosity! Put that letter on the shelf. Madge can take it over to the island tomorrow.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Bill’s reply was sufficiently meek but his face showed plainly that he did not like the order. He had always carried supplies and mail in person to Stewart Island or had left it in a covered box at the main landing across the lake from the Brady lodge. In previous summers, the Fairadays had tipped him well for the service.
After eating the supper Madge prepared for him, he shuffled out, permitting the kitchen door to slam behind him.
“He’s peeved,” Madge chuckled. “Poor Bill! His feelings are always being hurt.”