"Oh, Jed, what is it?" repeated Ruth. "I heard him shouting my name. I was in the yard and I heard it. . . . Oh, Jed, what IS it?"
Babbitt at last managed to wriggle partially clear. He was crazy with rage, but he was not frightened. Fear of physical violence was not in his make-up; he was no coward.
"I'll tell you what it is," he screamed. "I'll tell you what it is: I've found out about you and that stuck-up crook of a brother of yours. He's a thief. That's what he is, a thief and a jailbird. He stole at Middleford and now he's stole again here. And Jed Winslow and you are—"
He got no further, being once more stoppered like a bottle by the Winslow grip and the Winslow hand. He wriggled and fought, but he was pinned and helpless, hands, feet and vocal organs. Jed did not so much as look at him; he looked only at Ruth.
Her pallor had increased. She was trembling.
"Oh, Jed," she cried, "what does he mean? What does he mean by—by 'again—here'?"
Jed's grip tightened over his captive's mouth.
"He doesn't mean anything," he declared, stoutly. "He don't know what he means."
From behind the smothering fingers came a defiant mumble. Ruth leaned forward.
"Jed," she begged, "does he—does he know about—about—"