Into this atmosphere of constraint came 'Poleon Doret, and, had it not been for his own anxieties, he would have derived much amusement from the situation. As it was, however, he was quite blind to it, showing nothing save his own deep feeling of concern.
"M'sieu's," he began, hurriedly, "dat gal she's gettin' more seeck. I'm scare' she's goin' die to-night. Mebbe you set up wit' me, eh?"
Tom quickly volunteered: "Why, sure! I'm a family man. I—"
"Family man!" Jerry snorted, derisively. "He had one head, mister, and he lost it inside of a month. I'm a better nurse than him."
"Bien! I tak' you both," said 'Poleon.
But Jerry emphatically declined the invitation. "Cut me out if you aim to make it three-handed—I'd Jim the deck, sure. No, I'll set around and watch my grub-pile."
Tom addressed himself to 'Poleon, but his words were for his late partner.
"That settles me," said he. "I'll have to stick close to home, for there's people I wouldn't trust near a loose outfit."
This was, of course, a gratuitous affront. It was fathered in malice; it had its intended effect. Old Jerry hopped as if springs in his rheumatic legs had suddenly let go; he uttered a shrill war-whoop—a wordless battle-cry in which rage and indignation were blended.
"If a certain old buzzard-bait sets up with you, Frenchy, count your spoons, that's all. I know him. A hundred dollars a dozen for lemons! He'd rob a child's bank. He'd steal milk out of a sick baby's bottle."