Old Marsh’s eyes flamed up with Spanish fire, and he exclaimed:
“Robbed, is it? That’s your tune? It’s too old—been played in this house too often; everybody plays it that can’t get work when he wants it, and won’t work when he can get it. Trot out Mr. Allen, somebody, and let him take a toot at it. It’s his turn next, he forgot, too, last night. I’m laying for him.”
One of the negro women came scrambling down stairs as pale as a sorrel horse with consternation and excitement:
“Misto Marsh, Misto Allen’s skipped out!”
“What!”
“Yes-sah, and cleaned out his room clean; tuck bofe towels en de soap!”
“You lie, you hussy!”
“It’s jes’ so, jes’ as I tells you—en Misto Summer’s socks is gone, en Misto Naylor’s yuther shirt.”
Mr. Marsh was at boiling point by this time. He turned upon Tracy:
“Answer up now—when are you going to settle?”