Her eyes did not waver. Brophy had followed, to be better informed as to the funeral, and stood in the doorway.
“Who’s the nut?” inquired Patsy Jones, acridly, turning her gaze to the landlord. “He’s calling me names.” Her hard tones made the old man wince.
“He’s all right—safe—only a little crazier than usual,” returned Brophy. “If you want to eat, Dick, go ahead and eat—but don’t bother Miss Jones. I don’t allow anybody to bother her. And where’s that funeral, I ask you again?”
“Here!” said the old man, rapping his knuckles on his breast. “It’s buried. I guess I am crazy. Oh yes, I’ll admit it. I see things that ain’t so.”
“Well, go ahead and eat,” commanded Brophy.
“I don’t want to eat—I can’t, now.” He pushed back his chair and rose.
“What names did he call you?” demanded the landlord, truculently. “I won’t have your feelings hurt, you know!”
“Oh, only made some funny noises,” retorted Miss Jones, flippantly. “Let him go. I don’t mind.”
Rickety Dick plodded out as he had plodded in; he was shaking his head, dismissing all his hopes and his dreams.
Miss Jones went to another guest. “The world is full of ’em,” she said. “We have lamb, beef, and pork.”