“Talking of massacres,”—I now hastened to address the already saddened table,—“I have recently escaped one myself.”
The Judge had come to an end of his powers. “Oh, tell us!” he implored.
“Seriously, sir, I think we grazed pretty wet tragedy but your extraordinary man brought us out into comedy safe and dry.”
This gave me their attention; and, from that afternoon in Dakota when I had first stepped aboard the caboose, I told them the whole tale of my experience: how I grew immediately aware that all was not right, by the Virginian's kicking the cook off the train; how, as we journeyed, the dark bubble of mutiny swelled hourly beneath my eyes; and how, when it was threatening I know not what explosion, the Virginian had pricked it with humor, so that it burst in nothing but harmless laughter.
Their eyes followed my narrative: the New Yorkers, because such events do not happen upon the shores of the Hudson; Mrs. Henry, because she was my hostess; Miss Wood followed for whatever her reasons were—I couldn't see her eyes; rather, I FELT her listening intently to the deeds and dangers of the man she didn't care to tame. But it was the eyes of the Judge and the missionary which I saw riveted upon me indeed until the end; and they forthwith made plain their quite dissimilar opinions.
Judge Henry struck the table lightly with his fist. “I knew it!” And he leaned back in his chair with a face of contentment. He had trusted his man, and his man had proved worthy.
“Pardon me.” Dr. MacBride had a manner of saying “pardon me,” which rendered forgiveness well-nigh impossible.
The Judge waited for him.
“Am I to understand that these—a—cow-boys attempted to mutiny, and were discouraged in this attempt upon finding themselves less skilful at lying than the man they had plotted to depose?”
I began an answer. “It was other qualities, sir, that happened to be revealed and asserted by what you call his lying that—”