was repeated. "Who's knocking at this time of—"
Thompson hurried across his den, out into the hall, where he stopped again, alert. "Huh." Faintly, be heard laughter. "Of course." Herb grinned hugely. "I'd know his laughter anywhere. It's Colt. He came when he was cut off, couldn't wait till morning to tell me his confounded tail-tales." Thompson chuckled as he marched to the front door. "Glad he's here. Probably brought some friends with him. Sounds like a lot of other people laughing."
Thompson opened the front door.
"Come on in, Colt!"
The porch was vacant.
Thompson showed no surprise, his face grew amusedly sly. He laughed. "Colt? Now, none of your tricks! Come on." He switched on the porch-light and peered out and around. "Where are you, Colt?"
No answer.
Thompson waited a moment, suddenly chilled to the marrow. He stepped out on the porch and looked uneasily about, very carefully.
A sudden wind caught, whipped his coat, disheveled his hair. He thought he heard laughter again.
The wind died down, sad, mourning, passing away, away, going back far out to the sea, to the Celebes, to Nairobi, to Sumatra and Cape Horn. Fading, fading, fading. Laughing.
Thompson shrugged. He went in and closed the door, shivering.
"That's funny. . ." he said.
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