He fell over a chair, bumped into the table, and damned a few things.

The electric light was hung in the center of the room by a cord that kept him groping and clutching in the dark before he finally touched the elusive bulb with his fingers and switched on the light.
The table was set for a meal--but whether it was dinner or supper Bud could not determine.

He went into the little sleeping room and turned on the light there, looked around the empty room, grunted, and tiptoed into the bedroom.

(In the last month he had learned to enter on his toes, lest he waken the baby.) He might have saved himself the bother, for the baby was not there in its new gocart.

The gocart was not there, Marie was not there--one after another these facts impressed themselves upon Bud's mind, even before he found the letter propped against the clock in the orthodox manner of announcing unexpected departures.