“’T ain’t fer yer tew throw that in my teeth,” retorted the publican. “It ’s little money o’ yours has got intew my pocket, Joe, often as yer treat yerself an’ the rest.”
Janice went up to the captain. “Mr. Bagby, I want to go across the river to my father, and—” so far she spoke steadily, her head held proudly erect; but then, worn out with the anxiety, the fatigue, and the heat, her self-control suddenly deserted her, and she collapsed on the bench and began to sob.
“Now, miss,” expostulated Bagby, “there is n’t any call to take on so.” He took the girl’s hand in his own. “Here, take some of my swizzle. ’T will set you right up.”
Before the words had passed his lips, Janice had jerked her hand away and was on her feet. “Don’t you dare touch me,” she said, her eyes flashing.
“I was only trying to comfort you,” asserted Joe, while the tavern loungers gave vent to various degrees of laughter.
“Then let me go to my father.”
“Can’t for a moment,” answered Bagby, angrily. “He ’s shown himself inimical to his country, and we must n’t on no account allow communications with the enemy. That ’s the rule as laid down in the general orders, and in a Congress resolution.”
Bagby's voice, quite as much as his words, told the girl that argument was useless, and without further parley she walked away. She had not gone ten paces when the publican overtook her and asked:—
“Say, miss, where be yer a-goin’?”
“Home,” answered Janice.