As he said this, the wild-looking cowboy fired another shot, which was harmless, save for a small piece of plaster knocked from the wall. The shoemaker began to tremble again, and begged him not to be so free with his shooting or the police would be down on them. Indeed, it was strange that the officers had not already made their appearance. So he begged the stranger not to be so free.
“I’m not free. I’m tough, I am. You’ve got to be tough in the West. If ever you go there, trim yourself up with a beltful of guns and be as tough as the next one, or they’ll eat you alive. Whoop-ee! I’m goin’ out to find a graveyard. I’ve got to have a place to bury my dead.”
Then the man turned and staggered toward the steps, firing two shots as he went. The shoemaker at first thought he would run and hide, but he ducked down behind his bench.
“Nein, nein,” he muttered, “but I am tired.”
The shoemaker still cowered behind the protecting bench when Dora and Loney returned, laughing happily. Dora saw her father’s pale face and asked:
“Hello, papa. Was anyone here?”
“Vas anyone here? You ought to haf seen that crowd. You’d t’ink it vos an auction sale and dey vant to buy out my place. Vy you ask me such foolish questions, Dora?”
“Why, I did not know that was a foolish question. Was it foolish?”
“No, mein chilt. It vos idiotics.”
“Why, what is the matter, papa?”