"Like buffaloes!" quietly remarked Mr. Yorke.
"Like demons!" added Mr. Fetch. "Hear 'em."
"Was there much fuss to-day, when we suspended, Fetch?"
"Quantities of market people, mechanics, widows and servant maids," said the man of business. "I should think you'd stood a pretty good chance of being torn to pieces, if you'd been visible. Had this happened south, you'd have been tarred and feathered. Here you'd only be tore to pieces."
A step was heard in the back part of the room, and in a moment Blossom, in his pictorial face and bear-skin over-coat, appeared upon the scene.
"What is the matter with your head?" asked Mr. Fetch,—"Is that a handkerchief or a towel?" He pointed to something like a turban, which Poke-Berry Blossom wore under his glossy hat.
Blossom sunk sullenly into a chair, without a word.
"What's the matter?" exclaimed Yorke, "Have you—"
"Suppose you had sixteen inches taken out of yer skull," responded Blossom in a sullen tone, "You'd know what was the matter. Thunder!" he added, "this is a rum world!"
"Did you—" again began Yorke, brushing his gray whiskers and fidgeting in his chair.