CHAPTER XII—HUNCH AND MAMIE
HUNCH went down to Liddington Sunday morning on the combination freight and passenger train. Bruce had come to the station with him, and stood looking after the train for a long time after it had pulled away. Hunch saw him through the rear window.
It was a crisp January morning. The snow had come and the train rattled through a flat, white country, cut into strips as far as one could see by the straight up and down lines of the black pine stumps. At Liddington Hunch went up to the white brick hotel on the main street and ate his dinner alone. He walked up and down for an hour after dinner, trying to think clearly about Mamie and Bruce. Now, that he was on the ground, he was not sure why he had come. But it drew near three o'clock, and he walked out to Bruce's cottage.
At first there was no answer to his knock. The curtains were down, and the snow had not been cleared away from the steps. He knocked again and rattled the knob. He heard some one moving. A little later an inside door opened, and then, after some fumbling with the lock, Mamie opened the door. She was pale and thin. A shawl was drawn over her head and shoulders.
“Oh!” she said, then smiled. “How do you do, Mister Badeau?”
Hunch stepped in and closed the door.
“What's the matter?” he said. “You ain't sick?”
“No, just a little under the weather. Come in and sit down.”
The front room was cold.