As they tied the last
knot in the handkerchief, he loomed above them, white and shaking.
"You thieves!" he roared. "Give me my bandanner! Give me Johnnie's
silver mine!"
"Yes--yes--yes! Don't holler it out that-a-way!" whispered Pap Himes
from the floor, where he crouched, still clutching the precious bits
of ore.
"We was a-goin' to give 'em to you, Uncle Pros. We was just foolin',"
Buckheath attempted to reassure him.
The old man bent forward and shot down a long arm to recover his own. He
missed the bandanna, and the impetus of the movement sent him staggering
a pace or two forward. At the porch edge he strove to recover himself,
failed, and with a short, coughing groan, pitched down the steps and
lay, an inert mass, at their foot.
"Cover that handkecher up," whispered Himes before either man moved to
his assistance.
CHAPTER XIII
A PATIENT FOR THE HOSPITAL
When the Hardwick carriage drove up in the heavy, ill-odoured August
night, and stopped at the gate to let Johnnie Consadine out, Pap Himes's
boarding-house was blazing with light from window and doorway, clacking
and humming like a mill with the sound of noisy footsteps and voices.
Three or four men argued and talked loudly on the porch. Through the
open windows of the front room, Johnnie had a glimpse of a long, stark
figure lying on the lounge, and a white face which struck her with a
strange pang of vague yet alarming resemblance.
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