“I was just telling your wife—” he began, but was savagely interrupted.
“I don't care what you was tellin' her. But I got something to tell you, Mister Man. My wife's made up your bed too many times to suit me.”
“Billy!” Saxon cried, her face scarlet with resentment, and hurt, and shame.
Billy ignored her. Harmon was saying:
“I don't understand—”
“Well, I don't like your mug,” Billy informed him. “You're standin' on your foot. Get off of it. Get out. Beat it. D'ye understand that?”
“I don't know what's got into him,” Saxon gasped hurriedly to the fireman. “He's not himself. Oh, I am so ashamed, so ashamed.”
Billy turned on her.
“You shut your mouth an' keep outa this.”
“But, Billy,” she remonstrated.