John Carrington had spent a horrible morning. When the trap came back, and the stable boy Ike, who was driving, announced that Mr. Ned had sent him home, John Carrington promptly demanded why.
“I dunno,” said the boy. “He said, ‘That’s all,’ so I come.”
It couldn’t be possible that Ned had gone down the Tray-Spot! Ned, who had never shown the slightest eagerness to go down the Star. But what—— And why——
John Carrington fumed, fretted and finally telephoned—to find to his consternation that Ned was underground. What under heavens had Trevanion been thinking of, to let him go? John Carrington raged at him. And what was Ned thinking of? He knew absolutely nothing of underground conditions. Had Richards decoyed him into it for some reason? Any reason of Richards was not a good one.
John Carrington hobbled along on his crutch from the divan on the veranda to the couch in his bedroom, and back again, in a nervous unrest which made all places equally distasteful to him.
He raged at his own stupidity in letting Ned drive Trevanion over. He raged at this miserable leg of his that had held him prisoner so long. He raged at the strength which came back so slowly.
He sent Mrs. Kipley, who came up to remonstrate with him on this exhausting promenade, back to her kitchen in short order.
“He’s fairly beside himself, worrying over Mr. Ned, who ought to have had more sense than to do such a thing, anyway,” she scolded to Hemmy, feeling that she must vent her own nervousness in wrath upon some one. “Now what’s the matter with you?” she demanded, exasperatedly, for Hemmy’s face was assuming a chalk color.
“To think that he may be in danger!” said Hemmy, with a gulp.
“The only danger you need to worry about is spoiling those doughnuts,” said Mrs. Kipley, severely.