“Die, indeed!” ejaculated the ruffian, in a contemptuous tone. “Why, Lord bless you—I’ve stayed here for three veeks at a time, afore now—without ever budging out. Not be able to linger, as you call it, in this comfortable crib—smoke and drink all day long—or drink only, if you don’t like smoking—and sleep in one of them Windsor-cheers as cozie as a bug in a rug! Besides, won’t you have me for a companion——”
“No—no: I can not—will not endure it!” exclaimed Torrens, starting up from his chair,—his countenance hideous with its workings—his nerves strung to the most painful state of tension—and a thousand frightful thoughts rushing in, with the speed and fury of a torrent, upon his appalled soul.
“Hold your cursed jaw, you fool!” growled Vitriol Bob, in a tone of sudden rage: “you will be heard in the street—and——”
“I care not!” screamed Torrens, louder than before. “Give me my share of the money—let me depart——”
“Be quiet, I say!” spoke the ruffian, in a still more irritated voice, while he sprang from his seat on the barrel; “or I shall do you a mischief.”
“I care not!” again cried Torrens—and again his tone grew still more piercing and shriekingly hysterical; for he was wrought up to a state of utter despair. “Give me my money, I say—give me——”
“Fool—be still!” exclaimed Vitriol Bob, rushing round the table, and grasping the old man by the throat.
But Torrens, inspired with a sudden strength that astonished the ruffian, broke away from his gripe, and rushed towards the door, crying “Murder—murder!”
“Damnation!” thundered Bob; and bounding after him, he sprang upon the old man with the fury and the force of a tiger.
“Murder!” again yelled the affrighted, desperate Torrens: but in another instant he was dashed violently against the wall.