“I'll believe that when I have to,” Hoag growled. “I can smell liquor on you now. You fairly stink with it.”
“'Twasn't nothing but an eggnog Mrs. Wells made,” the boy said, slowly, studying the face before him.
“Well, you go on to bed,” Hoag ordered. “An' don't you make a bit o' noise goin' in, either. Don't wake that child.”
“I ain't agoin' to wake 'im,” Henry answered, as he turned away. “I'm sorry he's sick. Can I see him?”
“No, you can't! Go to bed an' let 'im alone.”
When his son had disappeared into the house Hoag stood for a moment staring at the light which filtered through the green blinds of his wife's room, and then, hearing the beating of hoofs on the road, he moved on to the gate with an eager, tentative step.
“That's the doctor now,” he thought. “What the hell's he creepin' along like a snail for when we've been waitin'—” But the horse had stopped in the shadow of the barn, and Hoag saw the rider still in the saddle leaning sideways and peering at him.
“What's the matter, Doc?” Hoag called out. “Want me to hitch yo' hoss?”
“It hain't the doctor—it's me, Cap. Anybody in sight—road clear?”
An oath of combined surprise and disappointment escaped Hoag's tense lips. It was Trawley, and for the first time since he had parted with the man that afternoon he recalled his appointment. He said nothing, but opened the gate, passed out, and went along the fence to the horse and rider.