"I will not give you these shirts until you return my money."
"What's that you say? You won't give 'em back—won't you?" and Mr. Grabb darted around the counter, yardstick in hand. "We'll see,—we'll see. Now just hand 'em over!"
He placed himself between her and the door, and raised the yardstick over her head.
The girl retreated step by step, Mr. Grabb advancing as she retreated, with the yardstick in his fat hand.
"Give 'em up,—" he seized her arm, and attempted to tear the bundle from her grasp. "Give 'em up you ——" he applied an epithet which he had heard used by a manager of a theater to the unfortunate girls in his employment.
At the word, the young woman retreated into a corner behind the counter, her face flushed and her eyes flashing with an almost savage light—
"You cowardly villain!" she said, "to insult me because I will not permit you to rob me. O, you despicable coward—for shame!"
The look of her eye and curl of her lip by no means pleased the corpulent Grabb. He grew red with rage. When he spoke again it was in a loud voice and with an emphatic sweep of the yardstick.
"If you don't give 'em up, I'll—I'll break every bone in your body. You hussy! You ——! What do you think of yourself—to attempt to rob a poor man of his property?"
These words attracted the attention of the passers-by; and in a moment, the doorway was occupied by a throng of curious spectators. The poor girl, looking over Grabb's shoulders, saw that she was the object of the gaze of some dozen pairs of eyes.