“Like von of de angels dot de goot Gott lofes de pest. She is small, und dark und peautiful, mit big black eyes und such a muchness of dark hair—yah, she is peautiful, ain’t she, Bennie? Und she sing—yust like de pirts on de trees, don’t it, Bennie?”
“By the living Lord, I’m right!” said Shoshone earnestly, “for yesterday she asked us, ‘Has any of you seen Bennie? He is gone away so long.’ That’s what she said.”
“Vot do you mean, Mister?” asked Morris pitifully, clasping his hands.
“There were some strangers came here yesterday—two men, two women. The big one was said to be mother of the little young one, but they didn’t look alike and, by the jumping jeeswax! they’re in the house right now. The small one looks like what you say, and they say she’s crazy. She sings something about ‘Tell me that you love me,’ or something like that.”
“It’s Dora! It is Dora!” said Bennie, the tears gushing from his eyes. “It is her song that she always sings.”
“Are you sure, Mister? For if I get disappointed now, it vill kill me,” said the father, imploringly.
“Yes, I tell you, they are here now. Right upstairs there. They ’roused my suspicions from the first. The women keep in the room all the time. I know I’m right.”
“In dere, are dey? Vell, ve vill haf dem out!” said Morris, with grim determination, starting for the staircase.
“Be careful, pardner, of that kind of cattle. They’ll shoot you on sight!”
“Den let dem shoot! I can die to safe mein chilt!”