Mr. Hartington bestowed on the storekeeper a mournful look, and continued:—
“Never seed Duncan sweatin' before. He didn't seem to grasp why the boys was there.”
“Didn't seem to understand,” put in Mr. Bixby, sympathetically.
“'For God's sake, gentlemen,' says he, 'let me in! The Truro Bill!' 'The Truro Bill hain't in the theatre, Mr. Duncan,' says Dan Everett. Cussed if I didn't come near laughin'. 'That's “Uncle Tom's Cabin,” Mr. Duncan,' says Dan. 'You're a dam fool,' says Duncan. I didn't know he was profane. 'Make room for Mr. Duncan,' says Dan, 'he wants to see the show.' 'I'm a-goin' to see you in jail for this, Everett,' says Duncan. They let him push in about half a rod, and they swallowed him. He was makin' such a noise that they had to close the doors of the theatre—so's not to disturb the play-actors.”
“You understand,” said Mr. Bixby to Wetherell. Whereupon he gave another shake to Mr. Hartington, who had relapsed into a sort of funereal meditation.
“Well,” resumed that personage, “there was some more come, hollerin' about the Truro Bill. Not many. Guess they'll all have to git their wimmen-folks to press their clothes to-morrow. Then Duncan wanted to git out again, but 'twan't exactly convenient. Callated he was suffocatin'—seemed to need air. Little mite limp when he broke loose, Duncan was.”
The Honorable Peleg stopped again, as if he were overcome by the recollection of Mr. Duncan's plight.
“Er—er—Peleg!”
Mr. Hartington started.
“What'd they do?—what'd they do?”