This state of "unmasterly inactivity" continued, however, but for a few moments. All at once she bounded from her chair, and a blasphemous oath escaped—more strictly speaking—shot from her lips. She crossed the floor, with a heavy stride, gave the bell-rope a violent pull, and then, hurrying to the door screamed "Corkins! Corkins!" with all her might.
"Why don't they come! Fools, asses!" and again, she attacked the bell-rope, and again, hurried to the door,—"Corkins, Corkins, I say! Halloo!"
In a few moments Corkins appeared, his spectacles awry and his right-hand laid affectionately upon his "goatee."
"The matter?"
"Don't stand there starin' at me like a stuck-pig!" was the elegant reply of the Madam,—"down into the cellar,—quick,—quick! Tell Slung to come here. Not a word. Go I say!"
She pushed Corkins out of the room. Then pacing up and down the small apartment, she awaited his return with an anxiety and suspense, very much like madness, uttering blasphemous oaths at every step she took.
Footsteps were heard, and at length, Corkins, dressed in sober black, appeared once more, leading Slung-Shot by the hand. The ruffian stumbled into the room, his brutal visage, low forehead, broken nose and elongated jaw, bearing traces of a recent debauch. Folding his brawny arms over his red flannel shirt, he gazed sleepily at the Madam, politely remarking at the same time—
"What de thunder's de muss,—s-a-y?"
"Are you sober?" and the Madam gave Slung a violent shake; "are you awake?"
"Old woman," responded Slung, "you better purceed to bisness, and give us none o' yer jaw. What de yer w-a-n-t? s-a-y!"