“A telegram from Mr. Graham,” he explained, and, while Mrs. Graham opened it hurriedly, he waited with one hand on the wheel-guard.
“Who were those two men talking with you, Mr. Underhill?” asked Clara Graham, inquisitively.
“Wal, the gentleman wi’ the red beard—him a-standin’ in the doorway noaw,” answered the old man, pointing towards the station, “is the representative o’ th’ Martson Enterprise,—Mr. Long his name is. An’ t’other one, him a-talkin’ to Mr. Marm’duke, ‘s ‘porter fur one o’ th’ Noo York papers,—I don’ rightly know’s name.”
“Clara,” said Mrs. Graham,—”There’s no answer, Mr. Underhill. Drive on, George. Clara, your father won’t be home to-night; he and Phil are detained by business. They won’t be home until to-morrow night.”
“Oh, well,” said Clara, cheerfully, “of course we shall miss them, but I think we can get along one night without them.”
“Ordinarily, yes,” her mother answered, promptly. even on her husband. “Ordinarily, most certainly. But there are these awful burglars, and we haven’t a man in the house.”
“There’s George, mamma,” suggested Clara. But George with great promptness, spoke over his shoulder, as old coachmen have a way of doing:
“Please, mem, I’ve got to be ‘ome to-night, because o’ my wife h’end the baby as she h’expects.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Graham, slowly, “George is right; he must be at home. Could your Cousin Will come, do you think, Clara?—No: he’s away, too. There’s Mr. Frisbie; we might ask him to take care of us. No sensible burglars would think of robbing the parsonage.”