They heard Neb's voice below giving instructions to his wife, and then the outer door in the rear was opened and closed. Presently a step was heard on the stair, and they held their breaths expectantly, but it was only Neb's wife with a tray of food. Gropingly she placed it on a little table, which she softly dragged from a corner into the centre of the room, and without a word retired. A door below creaked on its hinges; steps shambling and unsteady resounded hollowly from the floor beneath, and Neb's urgent, pacific voice rose to the tense ears of the listeners, “Come on; don't be a baby, Pete!” they heard Neb say. “Dey all yo' friends en want ter he'p you out 'n yo' trouble ef dey kin.”
“Whar dat meat? whar it? oh, God! whar it?” It was the voice of the pursued boy, and it had a queer, uncanny sound that all but struck terror to the hearts of the listeners.
“She lef' it up dar whar dey all is,” Neb said; “come on! I'll give it to you!”
That seemed to settle the matter, for the clambering steps drew nearer; and then two figures slightly denser than the darkness came into the room.
“Wait; let me git you er chair,” Neb said.
“Whar it? whar it? my God! whar dat meat?” Pete cried, in a harsh, rasping voice.
“Whar'd she put it?” Neb asked. “Hanged ef I know.”
“On the table,” said Hardcastle.
Neb reached out for the tray and had barely touched it, when Pete sprang at him with a sound like the snarl of an angry dog. The tray fell with a crash to the floor and the food with it.
“There!” Neb exclaimed; “you did it.”