“Damn funny!” growled a voice from behind the stove. “Gal goin’ aboard night like this, an’ him stabbed. Looks mighty bad!”
“You’ll look a damn sight wuss if you say that agin, or anythin’ like it!” shouted the old storekeeper with doubled fist. “Hal Briggs ain’t worryin’ me none, but this here is Laura, old man Maynard’s gal, an’ by the Jeeruzlem nobody ain’t goin’ to say nothin’ about her! Tell me, gal,” he added, “is he hurt bad?”
She caught him by the arm. He had to hold her up.
“Dying, Jim! Bleeding to death! Oh, for the love of God—hurry, hurry!”
Around them the rough, bearded men jostled in pea-coats, slickers, sou’westers. The tin reflectors struck harsh lights and shadows from rugged faces of astonishment.
“Who could o’ done it?” began Shorrocks, the blacksmith. “They’d oughta be ketched, an’—”
“Never you mind about that!” cried Gordon. He caught from a nail a formless old felt hat and jammed it on his head; he snatched up a lighted lantern standing on the counter, and with a hobnailed clatter ran for the door.
“Everybody out!” he bellowed. “Everybody out now, to help Laura!”
Into the storm he flung himself. All hands cascaded toward the door.
“You stay here, gal!” advised Asahel Calkins, lobsterman. “Ain’t no night fer you!”