The Reverend Azariah Beal advanced toward them through the willows.
Bobby whirled to face him and Hilton, with an oath, released her.
For a moment, portentous silence. The Reverend halted, plainly confused. Before Hilton's glare and the girl's breathless fury his eyes wavered. He opened his lips to speak and closed them helplessly. Then a queer glimmer crossed his face, half hope, half smile.
He reached into his pocket, brought forth a fountain pen, held it up and said:
"One moment of your time to bring to your attention this article, known from coast to coast, indispensable to any man, woman or child, which we are introducing for the purposes of further advertising at a trifling price, which—"
"Who the devil sent you here?" demanded Hilton, advancing.
The Reverend lowered his hand and blinked through his spectacles.
"I do not recall that I came from that black deity," he replied mildly. "My feet are directed from Above,"—gesturing. "I have been called upon—"
"Now you're called upon to get out. Understand? Get out!"
"Brother, is it possible that you are not interested in this article? Made of pure India rubber—"