“I jest thought I’d drop in tew see how you wuz gettin’ along, Maggie,” said from the darkness the same deep bass voice that had restored Richard’s courage in the hallway.
It was followed by a tall, lank man, who awkwardly held a black, soft felt hat in his big red hands. His rough clothes seemed to hang on him, and he held one shoulder higher than the other in an apologetic manner, as if to assure the world that his towering above the average height of people was neither his fault nor desire. His bushy and unattractive dust-colored hair seemed determined to maintain the stiffness which its owner lacked. His red mustache and chin-whiskers were resolved to out-bristle his hair. His shaggy eyebrows overhung modest blue eyes that looked as if they fain would draw beneath those brows as a turtle draws its head under its shell.
He bashfully greeted Dido, and she introduced him to Richard as “Mr. Martin Shanks, who boards with some friends upstairs.” He held out his big hand to Dick, saying:
“Glad to make yer acquaintance, sir!” all the while blushing vividly.
“We ran against you in the hall, I think,” ventured Dido.
“Yes, I was standin’ there when you came,” he answered, slowly, shooting a glance from under his brows at Maggie.
Maggie looked down, and Dido was surprised to see her blush. She would have been more surprised if Maggie had told her that this great, big, hulking man had stood guard at her door every night since her mother died.
“I should jedge you don’t belong to this yer neighborhood,” he remarked to Richard, shooting forth a jealous look.
“You are correct,” replied Richard, pleasantly.
“What might yer business be?” he demanded further, nervously turning his hat.