She threw herself on Jennings emitting sounds like forty catamounts tied in a bag. The flying crew jammed in the doorway, burst through and never stopped to look behind until they were well outside.
“Hy-sterics,” said the carpenter who was married—“she’s took a fit.”
“Hydrophoby—she must a bit herself!” Porcupine Jim was vigorously massaging his neck.
The bride was sitting on the floor beating her heels, when Bruce put his head in the door cautiously:
“If there’s anything I can do—”
Bertha renewed her screams at sight of him.
“They is—” she shrieked—“Git out!”
“You don’t want to go near ’em when they’re in a tantrum,” advised the carpenter in an experienced tone. “But that’s about the hardest one I ever see.”
Jennings, staggering manfully under his burden, bore the hysterical Amazon to her tent and it remained for Bruce to do her work.
“That’s a devil of a job for a General Manager,” commented John Johnson sympathetically, as he stood in the doorway watching Bruce, with his sleeves rolled up, scraping assiduously at the bottom of a frying-pan.