The cottage was a little, boxlike place, and one had to climb steps to get to it. Mrs. Gormley saw him coming from the windows of the tiny front room which served her as parlour and workroom combined. The seamstress tottered to the door and opened it wide, clinging to it for support.
“Oh, oh, Mr. Stagg! What’s happened now?” she gasped. “I hope poor Chet ain’t done nothin’ that he shouldn’t ha’ done. I’m sure he tries to do his very best. If he’s done anything——”
“Where is he?” Joseph Stagg managed to say. “Where—where is he?” repeated the widow. “Oh, do come in, Mr. Stagg. It’s snowin’, ain’t it?”
Mr. Stagg plunged into the little house, head down, and belligerent.
“Where’s that plagued boy?” he demanded again. “Don’t tell me he’s taken Hannah’s Car’lyn out on the cove in this storm!”
“But—but you told him he could!” wailed the widow.
“What if I did? I didn’t know ’twas going to snow like this, did I?”
“But it wasn’t snowin’ when they went,” said Mrs. Gormley, plucking up some little spirit. “I’m sure it wasn’t Chetwood’s fault. Oh, dear!”
“Woman,” groaned Joseph Stagg, “it doesn’t matter whose fault it is—or if it’s anybody’s fault. The mischief’s done. The ice is breaking up. It’s drifting out of the inlet. You can hear it—if you’d stop talking long enough.” This was rather unfair on Mr. Stagg’s part, for he was certainly doing more talking than anybody else.
Just at this moment an unexpected voice broke into the discussion. There was a second woman—she had been sitting by the window—in Mrs. Gormley’s front room.