“Thank you, ma’am, but I think we’d better go back,” said Sam.
“Fiddlesticks and fiddledeedee! ’Twon’t make a mite of bother to us to keep you over night. And I vow I just thought of it! I want you to stay and try Hannah’s waffles for breakfast—waffles with maple syrup, of course.”
At that Poke sighed, audibly and longingly. Step grinned, and the Trojan laughed outright. Sam, though, was serious.
“We really ought to be starting. If only those other fellows were here—— But how does it look, Lon? Any signs of clearing up?”
Lon, who had just returned from a weather observation from the porch, shook his head.
“No; closin’ in thicker’n ever. And rainin’ to beat the cars!”
“What did I tell you!” cried Mrs. Grant triumphantly. “Of course you’ll stay here all night. The traveling now would be awful.”
“Wal, ma’am, that depends on what you’re used to,” Lon remarked calmly. “Old Noah, now, he might say this was jest layin’ the dust nice and comfortable. Or a hornpout might call it pretty fair goin’. But for folks that ain’t had sich advantages of experience or nat’ral capacity—wal, I guess it’s safe to figger they would call the travelin’ jest about awful, as you was sayin’, ma’am.”
“But we ought to go back,” Sam insisted.
“Yes; I reckon we ought,” Lon agreed, but with no heartiness.