Part 22 (1/2)
”Is--is that you, Mr. Crow?” quaked the girl without turning her head.
”It is. What's that got to do with it?”
”I--You don't see him anywheres up the street, do you?”
”Come inside if you want to talk to me. I ain't goin' to stand here in this door an' freeze to death. Come in here, I say.”
”I da.s.sent. Maybe he follered me.”
”Maybe who follered you?”
”Him.”
By this time several other customers had joined the Marshal.
”Why, it's Lucius Fry's girl Elfaretta,” said Elmer K. Pratt. ”What's the matter, Elfie?”
”You're sure he ain't follerin' me? Look hard,” said the girl.
They all looked hard.
”I don't see anybody, Elfie,” said Anderson Crow.
”It's a little early for Santa Claus,” said Harry Squires, turning back to the stove, his eye on the only rocking-chair in the place. ”Come inside and tell us all about it.”
The girl entered the store, and some one closed the door. She was s.h.i.+vering, and not altogether from the cold. Her glance darted hither and thither, as if in quest of a more enduring protection than that exemplified by the man-power surrounding her.
”Roll that barrel of sugar over against the door,” she ordered quickly.
”I wouldn't have him catch me here for anything.”
”You needn't be skeered,” said the Marshal. ”Ain't we here? Let's see: there's one, two--eight of us. I guess--”
”He'd clean this bunch up as easy as rolling off a log,” said Elfaretta, edging toward the fire, but all the while casting uneasy apprehensive glances over her shoulder.
Newt Spratt and Situate M. Jones jointly took it upon themselves to roll the barrel of sugar up against the door.
”Are you referring to your estimable dad?” inquired Mr. Squires from the rocking-chair.
”Yes, I am,” said Elfaretta somewhat defiantly.
”Is he a little more vicious than usual tonight?” asked the reporter.
”He never was worse,” said the girl. ”He's just simply awful. I had to come out to see if I couldn't get Mr. Crow to come up to the house an'--an' settle him. He seen me just as I was going out the door, and took after me. Out by the front gate he slipped on the ice and set down like a ton of bricks. Oh, I never heard such cussing. You got to come up to the house right away, Mr. Crow. He's just terrible. He--”
”Hold on a minute,” interrupted the Marshal. ”Go slow, now, an' answer my questions. Is he--”
”He's throwing things around something awful. Ma's in the pantry with the door locked, and Juliet's hiding up in the--”
”I know all that,” broke in Mr. Crow sharply. ”You needn't tell me about that. What I want to know is, is he or is he not in his own house, under his own roof?”
”He is, unless he's still setting out there in the front yard--or follerin' after me,” she concluded with a terrified look at the barricaded door. ”Do you think that barrel's heavy enough to stop him?”