“Hello, Tom,” said Titus, familiarly.
“Hello,” returned Tom, looking up. “Since when has this castle been in a state of siege? Here, retainer, take your flintlock,” and he gayly gave Higby a playful dig with the broom as he handed it to him.
“Since the assault this morning,” said Titus, with a laugh.
“I declare,” said Tom, looking down at Higby with a whimsical face, “I was just about to lift up my voice and ask you to call off your dog. I believe the old fellow has gone crazy. Look at him prancing up and down with that broom over his shoulder.”
“Higby,” said Titus, staring down at him, “put down that broom.”
“Y-y-yes, sir.”
“And sit down and rest yourself,” continued Titus, anxiously. “You look tired. I believe the events of the morning have upset him,” he said under his breath to Tom. “I found him crying just now.”
“He isn’t crying now,” said Tom, pointedly.
Higby, in a state of silly glee, was seated in one of the high-backed hall chairs, making a succession of most extraordinary and most uncouth noises.
“Man, what are you trying to do?” called Titus, severely.