“Nobody wants to fall out with him,” retorts Mamma. “He’s going to be the makin’ of us, only—mind this—he ain’t to know too much, unless we want him to be our master. Look at the scamp, a-layin’ there! I’m goin’ to see ef he is asleep.”
She takes the candle from the table, snuffs the wick into a brighter blaze, and moves softly toward the couch. The Prodigal’s face is turned upward. Mamma scans it closely, and then brings the candle very near to the closed eyes, waving it to and fro rapidly.
There is no slow awakening here. The two hands of the sleeper, which have rested in seeming carelessness loosely at his sides, move swiftly and simultaneously with his body. And Mamma’s only consciousness is that of more meteors than could by any possibility emanate from one candle, and a sudden shock to her whole frame. She is sitting upon the floor, clutching wildly at the candle, while Franz, a dangerous-looking revolver in either hand, is glaring fiercely about him.
And all this in scarce ten seconds!
“Wot’s up?” queries Franz shortly, “wot the dickens—”
Papa comes forward, chuckling softly, but keeping cautiously out of range of the two weapons. And Mamma begins to scramble to her feet.
“Hullo!” says Franz, as he seems to notice Mamma’s position for the first time; “wot ails you?”
Papa is so amused that he giggles audibly; he was never heard to laugh an honest laugh.
“Git up, old lady,” commands Franz, withdrawing his eyes from Mamma; and he stands as at first, until she has risen.
Then he glances sharply about the room, and asks impatiently: “Come, now, what have ye been up to?”