Men and women gathered at
his back, read the words stupidly, looked into each other's faces and
shook their heads. Two or three gazed skyward.
"The Major gone? No, no . . . there must be some mistake. He would
come back--to-morrow, perhaps--and bring light and laughter back with
him. It was long since the town had enjoyed a good laugh, and here
were all the makings of a rare one."
But the days passed and brought no tidings.
Miss Marty had drawn down the blinds in the Major's house, in token
of mourning and to shut out prying eyes: for during the first day or
two small crowds had collected in front and hung about the garden
gate to stare pathetically up at the windows. They meant no harm:
always when Cai Tamblyn or Scipio stepped out to remonstrate, they
moved away quietly.
They were stunned. They could not believe.
On the third day the Town Council met and elected Dr. Hansombody
Deputy-Mayor, "during the temporary absence of one whose permanent
loss this Council for the present declines to contemplate."
That same evening the Doctor called a public meeting, and in a
careful speech, interrupted here and there by emotion, told the
burgesses all there was to tell. "My friends," he concluded, "With a
sad and sorry heart I lay these few facts, these poor shreds of
evidence, before you. Oppressed as I am by the shadow of calamity, I
refuse to consider it as more than a shadow, soon under Providence to
be lifted from us.
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