“But John, this is too much. I could not accept such a large amount for so little.”
“Mother,” said one of the girls, coming forward, “you should not accept anything at all.”
“Well, now, Mary, I guess you’re right. This is our daughter, young gentlemen, and she always has her way.”
“But she has not consider the way to justice,” said Tony, his black eyes flashing conviction. “We give that, or we not remain; even it is too little.”
“Yes, considering the storm, our predicament and our coming in on you this way, unasked, we can’t consent to less,” Bill added.
“Mabel, come here, girl,” said the housewife, laughing. “This is my niece. She’s making her home with us. Now, all you young folks and Mr. Merritt enjoy yourselves while I get supper and father does the barn work.”
The boys never forgot that long, yet all too short winter evening; the wholesome food; the dish of home-made candy; the fireside game of “twenty questions”; the music played by Mabel on the old-fashioned square piano, while Mary and Tony danced; the lively conversation and Bill’s exhibition of so-called mind reading—really muscle reading, during which, with Mrs. Farrell and Mabel holding his wrists, he found, blindfolded, a hidden pocket knife.
Merritt had slipped out early to open the radiator of his car, which he had foolishly forgotten to do. He had come back and called Bill aside for a moment.
“There’s another car down the road, just beyond mine; a big one and nobody about. I went along apiece to look at it and I think I know who it belongs to—that there new Eyetalian hash-house feller in Guilford. Only one car there like it and that’s his’n. You was askin’ about him bein’ in Guilford.”
“Yes. We know him and he knows us. He could have found out you were taking us home and then have seen your car here and waited.”