“I’ll give you a good imitation”—and I made a rush at the fellow who spoke. The crowd scattered, and the man, suddenly backing, toppled over with a crack that brought a yell out of him.
“See there!” I cried. “You scream before you are touched even. A pretty fool you, to gauge the meaning of any noise but your own gobbling over a slice of bread and bacon.”
This was to the humor of the others, who cackled hoarsely with laughter.
“If you want to ask questions,” I said, turning upon them, “put them to this doctor here, who sits every day in a room with a row of murderers’ heads looking down upon him.”
With that I walked off in a heat, and was going toward the house, when Dr. Crackenthorpe came after me with a stride and a furious menace.
“You’ll turn the tables, will you?” he said, in a suffocating voice. “Some day, my friend—some day!”
I didn’t answer him or even look his way, but strode into the mill and banged the door in his face.
As I entered our sitting-room, I found Jason standing motionless in the shadow a few feet from my father’s chair.
The old man welcomed me with an agonized cry of rapture, and endeavored to struggle to his feet, but dropped back again as if exhausted. I went and stood over him, and he clung to one of my hands, as a drowning man might.
“Who cried out just now?” I asked, fiercely, of Jason.