“Curse the fool!” cried Brander. “What does he want?”
The man, half-drunk, stood confused, as if he had interrupted some sacred ceremony.
“The gal,” he mumbled, “she’s a-singin’ psalms in the attic.”
“You——!” shouted the schoolmaster; cracked in his upper register and went into a skirl of laughter. The tension of the cord was eased, and both men fell back.
“Get to your bowl, you horn-bug!” screeched Fern. “What, the fiend! Shan’t she prepare herself for the sacrifice?”
“Oh!” said the man, “I thought subbody might ’ear—thas all.”
“Hear, you rat? Who’s to hear in the middle of Sahara?”
He waved his hand peremptorily. The fellow stumbled out and drew the door to behind him with a clap. Fern slipped his knife into its sheath. He looked at the other scoundrel stealthily, and grinned.
“Cry off, Brander,” he said. “We’re hunting counter. Fill and call a toast, man. My heart warms to the ladies. ’Twere a pity to waste this heat of passion on a friend’s undoing, when an enemy, and a pretty one, offers.”
Brander strode to the table and seized the flask.