“As I wer’ a sayin’,” resumed the old man, “yer’s er hopin’ agin’ hope, an’ a lookin’ at ye——”
“How utterly brutal and disgusting!” cried Mrs. Nancy Jones Black. “I must leave here, I cannot bear it longer! This is nothing but a low, vile dram-shop! Let me pass!”
She attempted to go through the doorway, but Tolliver interfered.
“Stay wher’ ye air,” he said, in a respectful but very stern tone. “Ye can’t git out o’ yer jist yit.”
“Dear me! Dear me!” wailed Mrs. Black, “what an outrage, what an insult! Are you men?” she cried, turning upon the gentlemen near her, “and will you brook this?”
“Give me your handkerchiefs again,” said Cattleton, “and I will once more poke out my head; ’tis all that I can do!”
“Shoot the fust head ’at comes out’n thet ther winder, Dave!” ordered Tolliver, speaking to some one outside.
“I don’t care for any handkerchiefs, thank you,” said Cattleton, “I’ve changed my mind.”
Miss Moyne was holding Dufour’s arm with a nervous clutch, her eyes were full of tears, and she was trembling violently. He strove to quiet her by telling her that there was no danger, that he would shield her, die for her and all that; but Tolliver looked so grim and the situation was so strange and threatening that she could not control herself.