“Hash!” he called.
“He appears to be out.”
“Hash!”
“Gone for a walk, no doubt.”
“Hash!” shouted Sam.
From the regions below there came an answering cry.
“Hi! Help!”
It had been a long and arduous task for Hash Todhunter to expel from his mouth the duster which Soapy Molloy had rammed into it with such earnest care, but he had accomplished it at last, and his voice sounded to Mr. Molloy like a knell.
“He appears to be in, after all,” he said feebly.
Sam had turned and was regarding him fixedly, and Soapy noted with a sinking heart the athletic set of his shoulders and the large muscularity of his hands. “Haul off and bust him one!” his wife’s gentle voice seemed to whisper in his ear; but eying Sam, he knew that any such project was but a Utopian dream. Sam had the unmistakable look of one who, if busted, would infallibly bust in return and bust disintegratingly.