“It’s not a man you’ve got there. It’s an animal,” said one of the men.
And shouldering the pitchfork he was carrying, he made a dash into the building.
But as he entered, a wild figure sprang up from behind the bar and faced the intruder, glaring and raging. It seized one of the earthenware jugs which stood on a shelf against the wall, and brandishing it above his head, gave forth an unearthly howl.
“Who is it? What is it?” screamed Meg.
“Stand back! stand back!” roared the creature, stamping and whirling its arms about. “Stand back! I won’t be robbed! I’ll serve you as I’ve served it—as I’ve served the devil! the devil! the devil!”
And with more stamping, more shouting, the creature hurled the jug, aiming at the head of the intruder.
It was dashed into a thousand pieces against the door, which shook and rattled under the blow.
“Why, it’s—it’s George Claris himself!” faltered the second man, who kept outside, too much alarmed to go beyond the door.
“Master?” cried Meg, indignantly. “Why, he don’t drink! He’s as sober a man as there is in the place!”
She was sobbing, and trembling, and clinging to the man.