Trumbull caught a gleam in the eye of the girl; the slit in the lower part of Wilkins’ face tightened grimly.
“You’re going to pay for this!” he grunted. “Doris! It’s time for my snack. Go get me some of them fresh doughnuts and cheese, and maybe a little apple sauce and a pitcher of cider.”
Doris Wilkins made a movement to rise, and Trumbull stopped her with a look; into that look he tried to throw all that was in his heart.
“Don’t feed the critter, Doris!” he said earnestly. “That is, if you’re just a little bit on my side of this game; don’t feed him until he puts down that gun and gives me a chance at him!”
“Doris!” bellowed Wilkins. “You get me that stuff to eat!”
“Don’t do it unless you want to see him drive me out!” exclaimed Trumbull.
For a tense moment she seemed to hesitate; then Doris sank into her chair with a toss of her head and a little spot of color in each cheek. “It’s about time I had something to say for myself!” she cried. “I’ll feed both of you when you promise not to quarrel any more!”
Johnny Trumbull grinned at his enemy. The face of Wilkins became troubled. He leaned forward and spoke pleadingly to his sister.
“You know my stomach is used to having something every night just about this time,” he said. “You never acted this way before.”
“Put up that gun, then, and be friends with Mr. Trumbull!”