The Chinaman came forward, still grinning. The expressman for a moment hesitated.
“Look here,” said the man in the shirt-sleeves, “I don’t want to have to come downstairs, I’m busy.”
The expressman, with Ching behind him, hurried out.
Mariposa’s deliverer stood at the stair-head watching them and slightly smiling. Then he turned to her. She was again conscious of how gray and clear his eyes looked in his sunburned face.
“I was writing a letter in my room, and I heard the sound of strife long before I realized what was happening. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t know there was any one there,” she answered.
“Well, the boys ought to have known. Why didn’t one of you little beggars come for me?” he said to the two boys, who were clambering slowly up the outside of the balustrade staring from the deliverer to the expressman, now advancing up the steps with Mariposa’s belongings.
“I liked to see ’em fight,” said the smaller. “I liked it.”
“You little scamp,” said the man, and, leaning over the stair-rail, caught the ascending cherub by the slack of his knickerbockers and drew him upward, shrieking delightedly. On the landing he gave him a slight shake, and said:
“I don’t want to hear any more of that kind of talk. Next time there’s a fight, call me.”