There was a quality in the voice of Doris Wilkins which was final. Trumbull guessed that her brother had never heard it before, for now his lower jaw sagged a trifle as he stared at her. His finger did not waver upon the trigger of the shotgun, but small beads of perspiration showed upon his forehead, and the end of a pale tongue ran around his lips. He was touched in his weakest spot.
“Trumbull,” he said huskily, “there’s trouble here, and I want you should go. I’ll⸺I’ll even pay you to go!”
“Money couldn’t hire me to leave!” Trumbull chuckled.
Wilkins rediscovered his courage. He swept them both with a baleful look. “All right! I’ll starve to-night, but when I settle with you, Trumbull, it’s going to be terrible!”
Trumbull drew inspiration from his success. He turned carefully so that his movement might not be misinterpreted and smiled at Doris. “If you handed me a doughnut and a piece of cheese I guess I could eat without getting shot.”
The small feet of Doris tripped into the pantry, and a moment later Trumbull was munching slowly before the yearning gaze of Wilkins. He ate his doughnut to the last crumb.
“That’s another debt you’ve got to pay!” muttered Wilkins.
IV
Two hours passed; three, four. Midnight struck. Still the two men sat facing each other. Trumbull’s occasional baiting of Wilkins lost its flavor; the head of Doris sank slowly to the table after many false starts, and she slept there.
Trumbull had made himself as comfortable as possible by sliding down in his chair. Wilkins remained very nearly motionless, with the gun across his knees and his eyes brooding. There was no doubt that his suffering for food was genuine; he had trained his stomach to expect a gorging at regular and frequent intervals.