Nan gave a little laugh. Suddenly the incongruity of it came over her.
"No," she said, "I spoke to him. Suddenly I seemed to see how Charlotte would have spoken—that mother way, you know, men can't stand up against. I said—I think I said—'Mr. Tenney, what under the sun are you carrying on like this for? I should think you were in liquor.'"
Raven, wondering if he should cry at the relief of having her safe out of the ogre's den, had to laugh with her.
"It caught him," said Nan, beginning to enjoy it, "as grandsir used to say, between wind and water. He looked down at the thing in his hands—the rags, you know—and dropped them into the wood-box. You see that was the real wiliness of the serpent, my telling him he was in drink. He's full of spiritual pride, all eat up with it. Then I played Charlotte some more. I told Mrs. Tenney to come in, and remarked that she'd get her death o' cold; and she did come in and her eyes—what eyes they are, Rookie!—they were big as bread and butter plates. I suspected she regarded me as specially sent. And I lit on him and told him, in good set terms, that if I knew of his driving his wife out of the house in one of his sprees, I'd have him hauled up and testify myself. Then I ordered him to get his hat and walk home with me."
"And he did!" cried Raven, in amazement at her. "Oh, yes, of course he did. Go on."
"Yes, he came to heel with a promptness that would have surprised you. And I didn't let up a minute. I discoursed all the way, on the whole duty of man."
"Did he answer?"
"Yes. That is, he spoke twice, the only times I'd let him. Once he broke in: 'I ain't a drinkin' man.' That rankled, you see."
"What did you say?"
"I said: 'Yes, you are, too. No decent man would act as you've been acting, unless he was drunk. And probably,' I said, 'you've been brewing it in the cellar, and selling it to the neighbors.'"