“Git back ther’!” growled a vicious voice, and at the same time the dull sound of a heavy blow was followed by the retreat of Cattleton from the window to the floor in a great hurry.
Upon top of his hat was a deep trench made by a club.
“The handkerchiefs did their duty nobly,” he remarked. “Let everybody come forward and identify his property.”
“What did you see?” asked Punner.
“A giant with an oak tree in his hand and murder in his eye,” said Cattleton, busily selecting and returning the handkerchiefs. “This eleemosynary padding was all that saved me. The blow was aimed at my divine intellect.”
“See here,” cried Peck, in great earnest, “this is no joking matter. We’re in the power of a set of mountain moonshiners, and may be murdered in cold blood. We’d better do something.”
Crane had prowled around until he had found a small jug of fragrant mountain dew whisky, which he was proceeding to taste in true Kentucky style, when a gaunt form rose in a corner of the room, and tottering forward seized the jug and took it out of his hand.
“No ye don’t, sonny, no ye don’t! This yer mounting jew air not ever’body’s licker ’at wants it. Not by er half er mile at the littlest calc’lation!”
Miss Crabb made a note. Crane gazed pathetically at the fantastic old man before him, and brushed his handkerchief across his lips, as if from habit, as he managed to say:
“I meant no undue liberty, I assure you. That whisky is——”