The knock was repeated. It was louder than before, and more impatient.
‘It’s Morris,’ cried Julia, in a startled voice, and she ran to the door and opened it.
It was indeed Morris that stood before them; not the Morris of ordinary days, but a wild-looking fellow, pale and haggard, with bloodshot eyes, and a two-days’ beard upon his chin.
‘The barrel!’ he cried. ‘Where’s the barrel that came this morning?’ And he stared about the lobby, his eyes, as they fell upon the legs of Hercules, literally goggling in his head. ‘What is that?’ he screamed. ‘What is that waxwork? Speak, you fool! What is that? And where’s the barrel—the water-butt?’
‘No barrel came, Morris,’ responded Julia coldly. ‘This is the only thing that has arrived.’
‘This!’ shrieked the miserable man. ‘I never heard of it!’
‘It came addressed in your hand,’ replied Julia; ‘we had nearly to pull the house down to get it in, that is all that I can tell you.’
Morris gazed at her in utter bewilderment. He passed his hand over his forehead; he leaned against the wall like a man about to faint. Then his tongue was loosed, and he overwhelmed the girl with torrents of abuse. Such fire, such directness, such a choice of ungentlemanly language, none had ever before suspected Morris to possess; and the girl trembled and shrank before his fury.
‘You shall not speak to Miss Hazeltine in that way,’ said Gideon sternly. ‘It is what I will not suffer.’
‘I shall speak to the girl as I like,’ returned Morris, with a fresh outburst of anger. ‘I’ll speak to the hussy as she deserves.’