“Sh!” said Grist. “Listen.”
Beasley had begun to speak, and his voice, loud and clear, sounded over the wind. “Come right in, Colonel!” he said. “I'd have sent a carriage for you if you hadn't telephoned me this afternoon that your rheumatism was so bad you didn't expect to be able to come. I'm glad you're well again. Yes, they're all here, and the ladies are getting up a quadrille in the sitting-room.”
(It was at this moment that I received upon the calf of the right leg a kick, the ecstatic violence of which led me to attribute it to Mr. Dowden.)
“Gentlemen's dressing-room up-stairs to the right, Colonel,” called Beasley, as he closed the door.
There was a pause of awed silence among us.
(I improved it by returning the kick to Mr. Dowden. He made no acknowledgment of its reception other than to sink his chin a little deeper into the collar of his ulster.)
“By the Almighty!” said Simeon Peck, hoarsely. “Who—WHAT was Dave Beasley talkin' to? There wasn't nobody THERE!”
“Git out,” Grist bade him; but his tone was perturbed. “He seen that reporter. He was givin' us the laugh.”
“He's crazy!” exclaimed Peck, vehemently.
Immediately all four members of his party began to talk at the same time: Mr. Schulmeyer agreeing with Grist, and Mr. Cullop holding with Peck that Beasley had surely become insane; while the “Journal” man, returning, was certain that he had not been seen. Argument became a wrangle; excitement over the remarkable scene we had witnessed, and, perhaps, a certain sharpness partially engendered by the risk of freezing, led to some bitterness. High words were flung upon the wind. Eventually, Simeon Peck got the floor to himself for a moment.