Then Hank’s voice.
“Don’t be scared, com’n’ open the door, don’t be scared.”
The voice: “I’m not a person to be scared—you ought to know that.”
Down below the perplexed Hank, standing before the closed door, was at pause for a moment. Why ought he to have known that? Was she mad after all?
“Well, open the door anyhow,” said he. “Don’t you know we’re your friends. Good Lord, don’t you know what we’ve risked getting you away from that lot? Come on—all the food and stuff’s in the lockers and lazarette and we’re clean perishing for something to eat.”
“That’s good,” said the voice, “you’ll have to perish till morning, then we’ll talk. Now go away, please.”
“Whach you say?”
“Scatter.”
A long pause. Then Hank’s voice, angry. “I tell you what—I wish to the Lord we’d left you there.”