“That doesn’t include me.”  He was still perfectly good-humored.

“Sorry,” I said.  “Have to have a written order from Mr. Pierce.”

He put a silver dollar on the desk between us and looked at me over it.

“Will that open the case?” he asked.  But I shook my head.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!  What the devil sort of order did he give you?”

“He said,” I repeated, “that I’d be coaxed and probably bribed to open the cigar case, and that you’d probably be the first one to do it, but I was to stick firm; you’ve been smoking too much, and your nerves are going.”

“Insolent young puppy!” he exclaimed angrily, and stamped away.

So that I was not surprised when on that night, Friday, I was told to be at the shelter-house at ten o’clock for a protest meeting.  Mrs. Sam told me.

“Something has to be done,” she said.  “I don’t intend to stand much more.  Nobody has the right to say when I shall eat or what.  If I want to eat fried shoe leather, that’s my affair.”

We met at ten o’clock at the shelter-house, everybody having gone to bed—­Miss Patty, the Van Alstynes and myself.  The Dickys were on good terms again, for a wonder, and when we went in they were in front of the fire, she on a box and he at her feet, with his head buried in her lap.  He didn’t even look up when we entered.

“They’re here, Dicky,” she said.

“All right!” he answered in a smothered voice.  “How many of ’em?”

“Four,” she said, and kissed the tip of his ear.

“For goodness sake, Dick!” Mrs. Sam snapped in a disgusted tone, “stop that spooning and get us something to sit on.”

“Help yourself,” he replied, still from his wife’s lap, “and don’t be jealous, sis.  If the sight of married happiness upsets you, go away.  Go away, anyhow.”

Mr. Sam came over and jerked him into a sitting position.  “Either you’ll sit up and take part in this discussion,” he said angrily, “or you’ll go out in the snow until it’s over.”

Mr. Dick leaned over and kissed his wife’s hand.

“A cruel fate is separating us,” he explained, “but try to endure it until I return.  I’ll be on the other side of the fireplace.”

Miss Patty came to the fire and stood warming her hands.  I saw her sister watching her.

“What’s wrong with you, Pat?” she asked.  “Oskar not behaving?”

“Don’t be silly,” Miss Patty said.  “I’m all right.”

“She’s worked to death,” Mrs. Sam put in.  “Look at all of us.  I’ll tell you I’m so tired these nights that by nine o’clock I’m asleep on my feet.”

“I’m tired to death, but I don’t sleep,” Miss Patty said.  “I—­I don’t know why.”

“I do,” her sister said.  “If you weren’t so haughty, Pat, and would just own up that you’re sick of your bargain—­”

“Dolly!” Miss Patty got red and then white.

“Oh, all right,” Mrs. Dicky said, and shrugged her shoulders.  “Only, I hate to see you make an idiot of yourself, when I’m so happy.”