“Phœbe who?” inquired Farmer Dodge, not for the moment connecting the name with Henry’s dead wife.
“Why, my wife Phœbe, o’ course. Who do yuh s’pose I mean?” He stared up with a pathetic sharpness of glance from under his shaggy, gray eyebrows.
“Wall, I’ll swan, Henry, yuh ain’t jokin’, are yuh?” said the solid Dodge, a pursy man, with a smooth, hard, red face. “It can’t be your wife yuh’re talkin’ about. She’s dead.”
“Dead! Shucks!” retorted the demented Reifsneider. “She left me early this mornin’, while I was sleepin’. She allus got up to build the fire, but she’s gone now. We had a little spat last night, an’ I guess that’s the reason. But I guess I kin find her. She’s gone over to Matilda Race’s; that’s where she’s gone.”
He started briskly up the road, leaving the amazed Dodge to stare in wonder after him.
“Well, I’ll be switched!” he said aloud to himself. “He’s clean out’n his head. That poor old feller’s been livin’ down there till he’s gone outen his mind. I’ll have to notify the authorities.” And he flicked his whip with great enthusiasm. “Geddap!” he said, and was off.
Reifsneider met no one else in this poorly populated region until he reached the whitewashed fence of Matilda Race and her husband three miles away. He had passed several other houses en route, but these not being within the range of his illusion were not considered. His wife, who had known Matilda well, must be here. He opened the picket-gate which guarded the walk, and stamped briskly up to the door.
“Why, Mr. Reifsneider,” exclaimed old Matilda herself, a stout woman, looking out of the door in answer to his knock, “what brings yuh here this mornin’?”
“Is Phœbe here?” he demanded eagerly.
“Phœbe who? What Phœbe?” replied Mrs. Race, curious as to this sudden development of energy on his part.