"Now you rascal!" cried old Oakley. "Say what you have got to say, and at once, too."
"Murder!" again gasped Lupin. "Brother Oakley, spare my life."
"I will not spare it if you are not quite explicit as regards what you have hinted of my child. Speak at once. Tell me what you have to say?"
"Let me get up. Oh, be merciful, and let me get up."
"No. You can stay very well where you are. Be quiet and speak freely, in which case no harm will come to you."
"Did you say, be quiet, brother Oakley? Truly you would be anything but quiet in my situation. What induces you to keep all your tools in this chest with the points uppermost?"
"You are trying to prevaricate now," said Oakley, suddenly snatching from the wall of his shop an antique sword, that had hung there as a sort of ornament, not entirely inconsistent with his trade. "You are trying to prevaricate with me now, and I must and will have your life. Prepare for the worst. You have now aroused feelings that cannot be so easily quelled again. Your last hour has come!"
The sight of the sword awakened the most lively feelings of terror in the mind of the preacher. He gave a howl of dismay, and made the most frantic efforts to get up out of the tool-chest; but that was no easy matter, particularly as old Oakley flourished the antique sword in dangerous proximity to his nose. At length, lifting up his hands in the most supplicating manner, he cried—
"Mercy—mercy, and I will tell."
"Go on, then. Quick."