“No, I came by train. It ’ll be a surprise.”
“Why did n’t you let them know?”
“Did n’t think of it. We—but I ’ll tell you all about it—”
“To-night. I ’ll come in pretty late—nearly nine o’clock. Good-bye.”
She was gone around the corner before I could say a word. I gaped at the corner, then ran on again. Our house was only a little way up the street. Nobody locked their doors in those days, and dashing up the steps without stopping, I threw open the front door. I stood for a moment, with my hand on the doorknob, listening for a sound to let me know where anybody was. How often I had done just that! My mother might be in the kitchen, or upstairs in her room, sewing. I heard nothing but a faint humming.
“Mother!” I called.
The humming continued. “Who ’s that?” my mother answered, as if she was busy. “Tom or Josh? I never can tell you apart by your voices. What are you home for now? Is anything the matter?”
I snickered nervously. “It ’s me, mother. It ’s Tim.”
The humming stopped suddenly. “What! It ’s who?”
I snickered again. I knew so well just how she looked, stopping her sewing, her foot on the treadle, and her head up, listening.