“It’s from a Rebel weepon,” the veteran said succinctly.
“It’s off a Yankee Springfiel’,” a voice came from the other side of the room.
“Enfiel’,” said the first speaker doggedly.
“Springfiel’,” contradicted his invisible antagonist tersely.
Once more, “Enfiel’.”
And again out of the shadow, “Springfiel’.”
And the juggler became aware that he had waked up the political dog of the region.
“They are equally digestible,” he declared, resuming his place on the platform. “I believe I’ll swallow it.” And so he did.
For one moment there was an intense silence, while the petrified audience gazed in motionless astonishment at the juggler. Then arose a great tumult of voices; there was a violent movement at the rear of the room; a bench broke down, and in the midst of the commotion, with a gay cry of “Hey! Presto!” the juggler apparently drew the bayonet from out his throat and triumphantly held it up before the people.
An increasing confusion of sounds greeted him. Screams of delighted mirth came from the younger portion of the audience, and exclamations hardly less flattering from the laughing elders. But ever above the babel terrified shrieks, shrill and clamorous, rose higher and higher, and the juggler frowned with sudden sharp annoyance when he distinguished the fact that an elderly woman was crying out that these were the works of the devil,—that here was Satan, and that she would not bide easy till he was bound, neck and heels together, and cast forth into the river. He was not usually devoid of humane sentiments, but he felt vastly relieved when she fell into strong hysterics, and was carried, still shrieking, out to the ox-cart, whence, despite the closed doors and windows, over and over again those weird, unearthly cries were borne in to the audience, as the yoking of the steers for the homeward journey was in progress.