“Guess it’s all right,” the man answered. “You ain’t armed even. Couple of fellows stopped by a minute ago—they were. I was kind of nervous, but they tried the door and then beat it. Your mother’s bank holds our mortgage, Mr. Sloan.”
The smiles of the frightened girls, the sturdy look of their mother, the composed tone of their towering father brought Kit part way back to his senses. He looked down at his clothes, repressing horror. Some Asiatic disease, probably, that the sulfas and antibiotics wouldn’t touch.
They all looked.
“Marylou,” said the bearded man, “run up and get something from Chet’s closet. Mr.
Sloan, here, is kind of dirtied up.” He set the shotgun in the corner and turned to his unwanted guest. “My name’s Simpson. Alhert Simpson”—He jerked his head—“The missus—my daughters, Mr. Sloan. The bank.”
Kit said, “This is very kind of you.”
“I’ll get you something,” Mrs. Simpson put a workbasket aside. Kit realized, with a kind of feverish resentment, that she had been listening to everything the radio must have been saying—and darning. “We have fresh milk…?”
“If you have anything stronger…?” he ventured.
“I’m afraid that—”
“There’s brandy—in the medicine chest,” Mr. Simpson said. “Brandy would be fine.”