"Nothin' to-day," said Mary, quickly and nervously.
"You ask-a meesis."
"She don't want anything," the girl quavered.
"You ask-a."
"I tell you she don't want anything—there ain't any missis," Mary said. He looked at her unbelievingly, and broke into a speech of broken English that was quite unintelligible to the frightened girl behind the table. Then, as she did not answer him, he came a few steps nearer.
It was more than enough for Mary. She gave a terrified shriek and ran for the nearest cover—the half-open door of the back kitchen behind her. She banged it violently as she dashed through. There was no lock on the door, so she could not stay there—but the window stood open, and Mary went through it with all the nimbleness of fear. She came out into the yard where the way lay clear to the house; and across the space went Mary, cometwise, a vision of terror and flying cap strings, each moment expecting to hear pursuing feet. Puck, the Irish terrier, sleeping peacefully on the front verandah, leapt to his feet at the sudden bang of the back door, and came dashing through the house in search of the cause. Mary, half sobbing, welcomed him with fervour.
"Good dog, Puck!" she said. She reconnoitred through the nearest window.
The Indian had come out of the kitchen, and now stood on the back verandah, his dark face working. He looked uncertainly about him. Then the back door opened a few inches—just so far that an enthusiastic Irish terrier could squeeze through—and Mary's voice came.
"Good dog, Puck!—sool 'im!"
The door banged again, and the heavy lock shot home. Mary flew back to the window, shutting and locking it frantically. She watched.