“Thought I tole you to git plum' outen dis hall!” quoth Smooth; and his voice, more than before, was freighted with the menace of dire catastrophe, imminent and impending.
Jeff didn't dare reply in regular words. He muttered unintelligible sounds beneath his breath, seeking the while to draw away.
“Quit mumblin'!” ordered Smooth. “You's liable to mumble up somethin' I don't keer to heah, an' den I'll tek an' jes' natchelly mek a set of nigger shoestrings outen you. B'lieve I'll do hit anyway—right now!”
One of his hands—the left one—closed en-twiningly in Jeff's coat collar. His right stole back toward his hip pocket—the pocket wherein Smooth was reputed to carry his razor. Jeff felt dark wings fanning his clammy brow.
“Speak up an' say whut you got to say whilst you is got de breath to say hit,” said the bad man.
“I—I wus jes' fixin' to go, Smoothy,” his voice squeaked.
“Naw, you wuzn't. Ain't I been watchin' you, hangin' round back yere whar you thought I couldn't see you. Now den——”
A uniformed and helmeted form bulged in between them, breaking Smooth's hold on Jeff. The disturbance had drawn the Most High Grand Outer Guardian away from his post at the door.
“Yere! Dat'll be 'bout all!” stated this functionary in a voice of authority. “Go on outside, you two, ef you wants to argify wid one nurr. Dis ain't no place to be 'sputin'.” He gave a violent start of surprise and his voice trailed off to nothingness. Until now he had not recognised Jeff's adversary.
“Who you talkin' to, Mistah Monkey Clothes?”