He went out, and the Four, left to their own devices, talked until the crackling wood fire made its influence felt and lulled them to drowsy silence. Barry, stretched as near the flames as safety allowed, actually snored. And then, just when they were on the point of falling asleep, Mr. Cozzens returned with a cheerful slamming of doors and stamping of feet, and looked in on them on his way upstairs.
“All right, eh?” he asked. “Supper’s almost ready.”
Nelson smiled half-sleepily, watched the door close, and then picked a book at random from the table beside him. It didn’t promise to be very interesting, for it was a volume on Montaigne, and Nelson had small affection for that gentleman. As he returned the book to its place an inscription on the fly leaf met his eyes.
“H. Dana Cozzens, St. Alfred’s School,” he read.
Then their host, since he was a bit too old to be a student, must be an instructor. Nelson wondered where St. Alfred’s was, doubtful of ever having heard of it before. His conjectures were interrupted by the summons to supper.
The meal was a simple one, but everything was nicely cooked, and there was plenty of it. The Four ate until Bob, as spokesman, felt driven to apologies.
“We don’t always eat like this, Mrs. Cozzens,” he assured the hostess. “At least, none of us except Tom. I haven’t any excuse to offer for him; he’s beyond them.”
They told their afternoon’s adventure, and asked what Mr. Cozzens thought about the sloop.
“Well, it’s moderated a whole lot,” was the answer, “and if she hasn’t broken up any by this time, she won’t. She’ll probably have some of her planks sprung, but I don’t think she’ll be much worse for her accident. Now, you boys had better stay right here until morning. There’s no occasion to turn out in this storm and get all soaked up again. We can put you up without any trouble if you don’t mind being a little crowded.”