“I’d take you in here,” said the voice,—the only sign of hospitality we had from Orland that night,—“but my husband and I have one room, and the children the other.”
Even standing on an alien sidewalk at two-thirty A. M. in the rain we felt less forlorn now that we had someone to talk to. A male rumble made a quartette of our trio, which after a discussion, she reported.
“He says you might try Uncle Ollie’s.” Her voice implied she thought the suggestion barren.
I dared not let her see we didn’t know Uncle Ollie for fear it might prejudice this suspicious hamlet against us. So I queried cautiously, “Now, just where does he live?” as if it had only slipped my mind for the moment.
“Go down the road a piece and turn west,—it’s the second house. But I dunno whether you’ll be able to wake him. He’s kinder deaf.”
We thanked her, and said goodnight and she wished us good luck. We bumped the damaged old lady down the main street, her thumpings making such a racket that we expected the constable to arrest us any moment for disturbing the peace. We had, however, no intention of trying Uncle Ollie’s.
A half mile further, within a pretty white cottage set shyly from the road, we saw a light burning. This was so unusual for Orland that we invaded the premises with new hope. Toby being again comatose, I waded wearily to the door and knocked. A frightened girl’s voice answered, and its owner appeared at the door. I shall always think of Indiana and Michigan as a succession of old and young standing on doorsteps in their nightgowns.
“Who is it?” called a voice from an inner room.
“Two women want a place to spend the night, gran’maw,” answered the girl.
“Well, don’t you let ’em in here,” answered gran’maw.