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Updated: May 25, 2025
The hail did not have to be repeated. Before the vehicle reached the station the boy had tossed away the cigarette, picked up the suitcase, and was waiting. Now he strode into the lantern light. "Here I am," he answered, trying hard not to appear too eager. "Were you looking for me?" The holder of the lantern tucked the reins between the whip-socket and the dash and climbed out of the buggy.
He leaped from the buggy, twisted the reins about the whip-socket, swung her out, caught up his gun, slipped in two shells, stalked toward the rigid dog, Carol pattering after him. The setter crawled ahead, his tail quivering, his belly close to the stubble. Carol was nervous. She expected clouds of large birds to fly up instantly. Her eyes were strained with staring.
"Let me see, did I think to bring any money out with me, or did I not?" mused Johnny, as he stood upon the kerb. "Look in the ridicule, miss," suggested the cabman. Johnny looked. It was empty. "Perhaps I put it in my pocket," thought Johnny. The cabman hitched his reins to the whip-socket and leant back. "It's somewhere about here, I know, I saw it," Johnny told himself.
They reached the summit in safety, and the priest pulled the horses up at the great door the first carriage to disturb the quiet of that spot for nearly a generation. He twisted the reins round the whip-socket, and clambering down rang the great bell. It answered to his imperious summons by the hollow clang that betrays an empty house. No one came.
He is pointing you out to the station-master." As he spoke the cart swung round the gate-post of the station yard, nearly throwing him out, and Sidney's right hand felt for the whip-socket. "There," he said, "we are safe. I think I can manage that fly." Mr. Bodery settled himself and drew the dust-cloth over his chubby knees. "Now," he said, "tell me all about Vellacott." Sidney did so.
The two lame men refused to do anything but march as best they could; but poor Martin Tighe, more disabled than they, was brought out and lifted into Henry Merrill's best wagon, where he sat up, straight and soldierly, with his boy for driver. There was a little flag in the whip-socket before him, which flapped gayly in the breeze.
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