Indeed, this same Gothecore would easily dispose of the affair. Expert with practice, there was none who could so run with the hare while pretending to course with the hounds. Softly, sympathetically, he would talk with the Widow Van Flange; and she would depart in the belief that her cause had found a friend.
As the Widow Van Flange and I conversed, we were brought to sudden silence by a strange cry. It was a mad, screeching cry, such as might have come from some tigerish beast in a heat of fury. I was upon my feet in a moment, and flung open the door.
Gothecore was standing outside, having come to my message. Over from him by ten feet was Melting Moses, his shoulders narrowed in a feline way, crouching, with brows drawn down and features in a snarl of hate. He was slowly backing away from Gothecore; not in fear, but rather like some cat-creature, measuring for a spring.
On his side, Gothecore's face offered an equally forbidding picture. He was red with rage, and his bulldog jaws had closed like a trap. Altogether, I never beheld a more inveterate expression, like malice gone to seed.
I seized Melting Moses by the shoulder, and so held him back from flying at Gothecore with teeth and claws.
“He killed me mudder!” cried Melting Moses, struggling in my fingers like something wild.
When the janitor with whom Melting Moses lived had carried him off—and at that, the boy must be dragged away by force—I turned to Gothecore.
“What was the trouble?”
“Why do you stand for that young whelp?” he cried. “I won't have it!”
“The boy is doing you no harm.”