“Say, Glen,” the old man quavered, “I plumb fo’got to give yo’ th’ letter feller gimme fo’ yo’!” He tendered the note apprehensively. “M’liss,’ she jes’ purely took my haid off!”
“Never mind, Pap,” Glen comforted him, taking it curiously. “When did you get it?”
“This mawnin’,” said Pap Tolliver, hanging his head.
“Oh, well, it probably isn’t so important,” she was opening it.
“Not Rip Van Winkle,” Janice Jennings whispered, “but a nice, mild old billygoat. Perfect! His beards part in the middle when he speaks! I’d adore to watch him eat!”
Glen Darrow was staring at the paper in her hand. “Who gave this note to you, Pap?”
“Why—” he scratched his head—“I disremember ’zackly who ’twas, Glen! One o’ them furrin’ fellers ... all pretty much of a muchness, they are.”
She leaned nearer to him, put a hand on his shoulder, gave him a slight shake. “Pap! You must remember! Was it—Black Orlo?”
He grinned delightedly. “Yes, me’um! That’s hit! That’s jes’ who hit were! Or leastways,” his face clouded over, “one o’ them furrin’ fellers....” He grasped the handles of his accordion and shuffled away, and his inevitable tune came back to them furtively and faintly, in little wheezing gasps.
Glen had kept her eyes resolutely away from Peter Parker, but he was watching her intently, and it seemed to him that she had paled. He stepped forward quickly.