Rose’s over-strained nerves were her best allies, and as she flew down the stairs it was the easiest thing in the world for her to give one piercing shriek after another. They resounded from the narrow stairway through the kitchen, and for the moment seemed to paralyze its inmates. As she burst in upon them, Florence was transfixed midway of the table and the stove with the platter of ham in her hands, the baby had climbed upon a chair, and the tramp had arisen with a bewildered air from the table. As her skirts cleared the door, she turned and dashed it shut, and flung herself against it, shrieking, “She’s out—she’s out of her room!”
To the mystified Florence there came but one solution to her behavior—fright had overthrown her sister’s reason, and with a wail she rushed toward her, crying, “She’s crazy! Oh, she’s crazy!”
“Who’s crazy?” yelled the tramp.
The baby, now wildly terrified, set up a loud weeping, while from the stairway came a succession of blows and angry demands that the door be opened. A moment later it was forced ajar, and a head crowned with a mass of tossed hair was thrust out and quickly followed by a hand in which was clutched a gun.
“She’s got the gun! Oh, Florence, run to the baby!” cried Rose.
“Who’s that?” demanded the apparition, making a rush toward the tramp.
“Here, keep off! Leave me alone!” backing away and warding off an expected blow.