Goodwin.
"Sir," broke forth Old Hurricane, in fury, "that wretch has eaten at
my table! Has drunk wine with me!! Has slept in my bed!!! Ugh! ugh!!
ugh!!!"
"Believing him to be what he seemed, sir, you extended to him the
rights of hospitality; you have nothing to blame yourself with!"
"Demmy, sir, I did more than that! I've coddled him up with
negusses! I've pampered him up with possets and put him to sleep in
my own bed! Yes, sir--and more! Look there at Mrs. Condiment, sir!
The way in which she worshiped that villain was a sight to behold!"
said Old Hurricane, jumping up and stamping around the tent in fury.
"Oh, Mr. Goodwin, sir, how could I help it when I thought he was
such a precious saint?" whimpered the old lady.
"Yes, sir! when 'his reverence' would be tired with delivering a
long-winded mid-day discourse, Mrs. Condiment, sir, would take him
into her own tent--make him lie down on her own sacred cot, and set
my niece to bathing his head with cologne and her maid to fanning
him, while she herself prepared an iced sherry cobbler for his
reverence! Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Condiment, mum!"
said Old Hurricane, suddenly stopping before the poor old woman, in
angry scorn.
"Indeed, I'm sure if I'd known it was Black Donald, I'd no more have
suffered him inside of my tent than I would Satan!"
"Demmy, mum, you had Satan there as well! Who but Satan could have
tempted you all to disregard me, your lawful lord and master, as you
every one of you did for that wretch's sake! Hang it, parson, I
wasn't the master of my own house, nor head of my own family!
Precious Father Gray was! Black Donald was! Oh, you shall hear!"
cried Old Hurricane, in a frenzy.
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