"Well, I declare, that was pleasant!" thought Cap, as she entered the parlor.
"Mrs. Condiment, what will he say when he comes back and finds you all here still?" she asked.
"Say? Nothing. After this passion is over he will be so exhausted that he will not be able to get up another rage in two or three days."
"Where has he gone?"
"To Tip-Top, and alone, too; he was so mad with poor Wool that he wouldn't even permit him to attend."
"Alone? Has he gone alone? Oh, won't I give him a dose when he comes back," thought Capitola.
Meanwhile Old Hurricane stormed along toward Tip-Top, lashing off the poor dogs that wished to follow him and cutting at every living thing that crossed his path. His business at the village was to get bills printed and posted offering an additional reward for the apprehension of "the marauding outlaw, Black Donald." That day he dined at the village tavern—"The Antlers," by Mr. Merry—and differed, disputed or quarrelled, as the case might be, with every man with whom he came in contact.
Toward evening he set off for home. It was much later than his usual hour for returning; but he felt weary, exhausted and indisposed to come into his own dwelling where his furious temper had created so much unhappiness. Thus, though it was very late, he did not hurry; he almost hoped that every one might be in bed when he should return. The moon was shining brightly when he passed the gate and rode up the evergreen avenue to the horse-block in front of the house. There he dismounted and walked up into the piazza, where a novel vision met his surprised gaze.
It was Capitola, walking up and down the floor with rapid, almost masculine strides, and apparently in a state of great excitement.
"Oh, is it you, my little Cap? Good evening, my dear," he said, very kindly.