But Munson throttled and shook him more furiously than before, singing out:
“Help! murder! arson! Here’s this man reskying of my prisoner!” And he shook him until his teeth rattled in his head.
“Oh, my good lord! I shall be strangled with the best of intention,” sputtered the terrified and half-suffocated victim, as for an another instant he freed his throat from his assailant’s clasp, and breathed again.
“Help! murder! fire!” yelled Munson, renewing the attack.
“Bob! Bob! It’s me, I tell you!—Purley! Wake up and look at me! You’re asleep yet! And oh, my lord! the man will murder me by mistake before I can make him know,” panted the poor wretch, desperately striving to keep off the strangling hands of his assailant, and growing weak in the struggle.
And meanwhile the household, aroused by the outcry, had hurried on their clothes, and now came pouring into the passage—the women down the garret stairs, and the men up the lower back stairs.
“Now I’ve got you!” exclaimed Munson, triumphantly, as he knocked the feet from under Purley, and threw him down upon the floor. Then stooping to gaze at the fallen foe, he condescended at length to recognize him.
“Oh! is it you, Mr. Purley? I really thought it was Mr. Berner, reskying of his wife!” said Munson, with provoking coolness.
“Then I wish you would make surer another time, you stupid donkey! You’ve all but killed me!” panted the victim, wiping the perspiration from his face.
“What is the matter?”