"Excuse me, I'm not to be married till eleven."
"Iss, iss, but they're comin' at ten, sharp."
"And who in the world may 'they' be?"
"The press-gang."
The stranger sprang up to his feet, and seemed for a moment about to fly at Zeb's throat.
"You treacherous hound!"
"Stand off," said Zeb wearily, without taking his hand from the door-post. "I reckon it don't matter what I may be, or may not be, so long as you'm dressed i' ten minnits."
The other dropped his hands, with a short laugh.
"I beg your pardon. For aught I know you may have nothing to do with this infernal plot except to warn me against it."
"Don't make any mistake. 'Twas I that set the press-gang upon 'ee," answered Zeb, in the same dull tones.