"Hunter!" she shrieked. "Hunter! There's a whole damnyankee invadin' my privacy!"
Even before she had stopped screaming the door to the bathroom burst open and Col. Hunter Reynolds charged into view, obviously prepared to defend southern chivalry to the end, if necessary. Needing only a julep in his hand to complete the picture, he was a fair caricature of all southern colonels.
"Damnyankee, did you say!" he thundered.
"There!" his wife said, agitating her bath water. She pointed dramatically to the window.
"Gad!" the Colonel snorted. "That's the damndest damnyankee I've ever seen. He's upside down, isn't he? Gave me quite a turn for a second there. But it looks like he's had quite a turn himself." The Colonel chuckled foolishly at his own pleasantry.
"I'm the one who's had the turn!" his wife snapped. "Stop that silly gigglin' and titterin', you old fool, and do something."
The Colonel considered. "Yes, yes," he murmured. "I suppose I'll have to shoot the dog; there isn't enough of him to flog."
"My water's getting cool," Mrs. Hunter Reynolds mentioned fretfully.
"Good," the Colonel said absently. "Good. Keep it that way." He started from the room.
"Help!" Marc yelled.