“I’m not drunk; there is something the matter,” bellowed Thickset, and with his fore-finger he pointed to the waggon.
“You don’t mean to say the honey,” said Quickset, his voice falling.
“I don’t mean to say the honey,” said Thickset, his caution rising.
The gesture of Thickset, however, had conveyed some vague notion of danger to his companion. With the agility of a cat he climbed on the waggon, and with the superhuman activity of a demon, soon pitched down every bundle of besoms. There is a proverb that new brooms sweep clean, and they certainly seemed to have swept every particle of honey clean out of the waggon.
Quickset was thunderstruck; he stood gazing at the empty vehicle in silence; while his hands wandered wildly through his hair, as if in search of the absent combs.
When he found words at last, they were no part of the Litany. Words, however, did not suffice to vent his passion; and he began to stamp and dance about, till the mud of the stable-yard flew round like anything you like.
“A plague take him and his honey-pots, too,” said the chambermaid, as she looked at a new pattern on her best gingham.
“It’s no matter,” said Quickset. “I won’t lose it. The house must stand the damage. Mr. Bush, I shall look to you for the money.”
“He shall look to you for the money,” da-capo’d Thickset.