“Geeminy, but it’s cracking good!” Step interrupted.
“Why, I’d call it grand,” quoth Poke solemnly, and licked his lips reminiscently.
Then Mrs. Grant laughed. “Ha, ha, ha! I vow, but there’d be some satisfaction in cooking for a lot of folks like you boys! But if you want to see where the maple comes from—why, I don’t want to turn you out in the wet, but you ought to be looking around while the light’s as good as it’s likely to be this day. And so, if Mr. Grant is ready, and you’re ready to start—why, that’s just what I’d do if I were you.”
Now, probably there was nobody concerned—except Varley, of course—who wouldn’t have been willing to omit the expedition. But Paul was genuinely interested, and so evident was this fact that none of the others were willing to offer objection. Caps and overcoats and overshoes were brought out and donned, and with Mr. Grant in the lead the party streamed out of the house.
“Don’t stay too long!” Mrs. Grant called after them. “My, but it’s getting to be weepy weather! Well, I’ll have something warm and comforting waiting for you when you come back.”
“Weepy weather,” indeed, fitted the case. The air was milder than ever, and more charged with moisture. Eaves were dripping, and little streams trickled down the trunks of the trees; under foot the melting snow lay in a dwindling, soggy mass. What was more, a thin drizzle was falling, hardly to be called a rain, but curiously searching and penetrating in its dampness.
Mr. Grant glanced at the leaden sky, and shook his head.
“Well, if I had to guess, I’d say things were going to be worse before they’re better,” he remarked. “Way the wind’s been hanging in the east——”
“More southeast, ain’t it?” Lon inquired.
“In-between. Vane on the barn ain’t hardly wiggled all day. And it’s pointing right to where our big rains hail from. Funny we haven’t had it harder. Up-river they’ve been getting a reg’lar downpour, accordin’ to what they’re telephoning.”