Roberts: “And that she corresponded somewhat to the description; and—and—”
Campbell: “Well?”
Roberts: “And she told me she was no more a cook than my wife was; and she said she’d teach me to be playing my jokes on ladies; and she grabbed up her things and flew out of the room.”
Campbell; “Waddled, I should have said. But this is pretty serious, Roberts. She may be a relation of John L. Sullivan’s. I guess we better get out of here; or, no, we can’t! We’ve got to wait for Amy and Agnes.”
Roberts: “What—what would you do?”
Campbell: “I don’t know. Look here, Roberts: would you mind sitting a little way off, so as to look as if I didn’t belong with you? I don’t want to be involved in this little row of yours unnecessarily.”
Roberts: “Oh, come now, Willis! You don’t think she’ll make any trouble? I apologized. I said everything I could think of. She must think I was sincere.”
Campbell: “In taking her for a cook? I’ve no doubt she did. But I don’t see how that would help matters. I don’t suppose she’s gone for an officer; but I suspect she’s looking up the largest Irishman of her acquaintance, to come back and interview you. I should advise you to go out and get on some train; I’d willingly wait here for Amy and Agnes; but you see the real cook might come here, after you went, and I shouldn’t know her from Adam—or Eve. See?”
Roberts, desperately. “I see—Good heavens! Here comes that woman back; and a man with her. Willis, you must help me out.” Roberts gets falteringly to his feet, and stands in helpless apprehension, while Mr. and Mrs. McIlheny bear down upon him from the door. Mr. McIlheny, a small and wiry Irishman, is a little more vivid for the refreshment he has taken. He is in his best black suit, and the silk hat which he wears at a threatening slant gives dignified impressiveness to his figure and carriage. With some dumb-show of inquiry and assurance between himself and his wife, he plants himself in front of Roberts, in an attitude equally favorable for offence and defence.