“That,” said Woolfolk, “I am not going to argue with you. I came ashore to instruct you to let my man and my property alone.”
“Then leave our water be.”
John Woolfolk’s temper, the instinctive arrogance of men living apart from the necessary submissions of communal life, in positions—however small—of supreme command, flared through his body.
“I told you,” he repeated shortly, “that I would not discuss the question of the water. I have no intention of justifying myself to you. Remember—your hands off.”
The other said surprisingly: “Don’t get me started!” A spasm of emotion made a faint, passing shade on his sodden countenance; his voice held almost a note of appeal.
“Whether you ‘start’ or not is without the slightest significance,” Woolfolk coldly responded.
“Mind,” the man went on, “I spoke first.”
A steady twitching commenced in a muscle at the flange of his nose. Woolfolk was aware of an increasing tension in the other, that gained a peculiar oppressiveness from the lack of any corresponding outward expression. His heavy, blunt hand fumbled under the maculate apron; his chest heaved with a sudden, tempestuous breathing. “Don’t start me,” he repeated in a voice so blurred that the words were hardly recognizable. He swallowed convulsively, his emotion mounting to an inchoate passion, when suddenly a change was evident. He made a short, violent effort to regain his self-control, his gaze fastened on a point behind Woolfolk.
The latter turned and saw Millie Stope approaching, her countenance haggard with fear. “What has happened?” she cried breathlessly while yet a little distance away. “Tell me at once—”
“Nothing,” Woolfolk promptly replied, appalled by the agony in her voice. “Nicholas and I had a small misunderstanding. A triviality,” he added, thinking of the other’s hand groping beneath the apron.