Humphrey Lathrop put his tea-cup down and wiped his huge pursing lips.
He nodded slowly.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “Walden’s right. Walden’s a great fellow. He knows
where justice is due.”
The bright sunlight of the early afternoon plucked at the curtains.
A refreshed and neatly shaved Dreeme sat before the ancient oracle,
toying with his cup of tea.
“Perhaps you’d like apple-jack, Daniel?” The old doctor was solicitous.
Dreeme shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said. “I don’t understand it all.”
“You never will,” replied Humphrey Lathrop. “You are too young to
understand anything.”
He said it pleasantly.
“And why shouldn’t the farmers get off scot-free?” asked Lathrop,
pursuing the thread of the conversation. “They haven’t done anything.”
Dreeme opened his eyes very wide.
“No, they haven’t,” persisted the old doctor. “Corey was right. Corey
is a good man. They’re all good men.”
Dreeme sat looking at him in amazement. Humphrey Lathrop chuckled
wheezily, leaned over, and prodded the young doctor.
“Use your head, Daniel,” he said. “Use your head even if you have lost
it.”
He wheezed again merrily at that.
“Do you hold a sick man accountable for what he does when he’s out of
his head?” asked the old doctor.
Dreeme shook his head negatively.
“All right,” said Humphrey Lathrop conclusively. That seemed to settle
it for the old doctor looked in his empty tea-cup, wheezed mournfully,
and then chuckled.
“I never felt so young in eighty years,” he remarked blandly to the
room in general.
Dreeme had to smile at that.
“Now, _say_!” exclaimed Lathrop. He pounded vigorously with his
cane. An instant later Lucinda’s vinegary visage thrust itself through
the door.
“The apple-jack bottle and two glasses,” ordered the old doctor.
Lucinda’s visage wrinkled into an absurd map. She started to withdraw
her head when Lathrop shook his huge cane.
“Y’d better make it three glasses,” he declared, winking in a knowing
manner at Dreeme.
“I’ll bring four,” announced Lucinda in nasal tones. “I believe a teeny
mite ’ud do me good.”
She withdrew the wrinkled map of her visage after strangely contorting
it. Lathrop stared after her with his mouth open.
“I believe the old fool was laughing,” he said in a husky whisper. Then
he chuckled. He beamed. His three chins shook waggishly. He added:
“Well, well, well!”
It seemed a period to Dreeme’s adventures. Suddenly Lathrop’s crinkling
face sobered. He leaned forward and said to Dreeme hastily:
“I heard this morning from young Barnson. He’d been over to Leeminster.
He saw a tall dark woman come into town. She had no luggage. She
engaged a buggy to take her over to Pittsfield. She....”
Dreeme raised his hand.
“She’s gone,” he said. “And that’s that.”
“That’s that,” agreed the old doctor cheerfully.
The door was pushed open and Lucinda stalked in balancing a tray on
which reposed a bottle and four tumblers. Dreeme did not see her. He
had risen to his feet and was gazing past her at the slight figure
that came smilingly at her heels.
The girl’s eyes were like wet violets, a soaked blue so deep as to be
astonishing.