"Right you are, son! But he has sharp eyes, and as he is our friend it would not be polite to give a party and leave him out. He needn't play. Somebody must sit out, anyway, or we'll have too many for a good game, but he can talk, and look on, and help burn tobacco."
"Good! Then we must get Goodine, Nash, Wigmore, Marsh, Jim Harley, and Benjamin Samson."
"Never mind Samson. We don't need him. He is harmless and hopeless—and one too many. Also, he has promised Mrs. Samson never to stay out again after ten o'clock at night."
"All serene. We'd better start out with our invites right after grub. And as the roads are bad we may as well ride. You can have Buller and I'll take Bobs. Who do you want to call on?"
"I'll see Nash and Wigmore, and leave the others to you."
So, after the midday meal, they saddled the two farm horses and set out. Mr. Banks rode straight to Captain Wigmore's house. The air was still mild and the sky was clouded. About four inches of slushy snow lay upon the half-frozen ruts of the roads. The New Yorker hitched Buller in an open carriage shed, and hammered with the butt of his whip upon the front door. He waited patiently for nearly ten minutes, then hammered again. This time the summons brought old Timothy Fletcher, looking even more sullen than usual and with his gray-streaked hair standing up like the crest of some grotesque fowl. His eyes had the appearance of being both sharp and dull at the same time. They showed inner points, glinting like ice, and an outer, blinking film like the shadow of recent sleep. For several seconds he stood with the door no more than six inches ajar, staring and blinking at the caller, his wind-tanned brow forbidding, but his lower face as expressionless as a panel of the door.
"Who d'ye want, sir?" he inquired at last, in a grudging voice.
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Banks. "I really thought you were asleep, Timothy. I want to speak to the captain for a few minutes. Is he at home?"
Timothy Fletcher lowered his staring eyes for an instant, then raised them again, blinking owlishly. The glint in their depths brightened, and took on sharper edges.
"What d'ye want to speak to him about?" he asked suspiciously.