The afternoon passed without sight or further word of old Dave Hinch; but Tom McPhee appeared after supper with a budget of intelligence that was well received by the Hassocks. Old Hinch was ill—so ill that he had sent Tom down to Rattles for the doctor—so ill that his conscience was troubling him for having parted with his granddaughter.
“If he don’t feel better by mornin’ he’ll send for her,” said McPhee. “And a good thing, too. That young skunk Steve Dangler’s sweet on the girl; an’ Dave knows it. Now that he’s feelin’ real sick he don’t like it. He ain’t a bad sort of old man when he’s scart he may die any minute.”
“Maybe Luke Dangler won’t sent Joe back ag’in. He’s as much her grandpa as Dave Hinch himself,” said Jard.
“But Dave’s her guardeen, which Luke ain’t,” returned McPhee.
At eleven o’clock that night Robert Vane rattled his fingernails on the glass of Pete Sledge’s dark window. Nothing happened. He tapped again, louder this time, and waited expectantly for the sudden flare of a match behind the black panes. Nothing flared; and he was about to rap a yet louder summons on the window when a slight sound behind him caused him to jump and turn in his tracks. There stood Pete Sledge a few paces off, with an axe on his shoulder.
“Reckon I give you a start,” said Pete in a pleased tone.
“You did,” returned Vane. “I was looking for you in front.”
“I stopped inside long’s I could after ma went to bed, an’ then I come out an’ waited behind the woodpile.”
“Why behind the woodpile?”
“No harm intended, but yer a stranger to me. But I reckon yer all right. Which way d’ye want to go?”