With a howl of terror the wretch staggered back, putting up his
hands to ward off the expected shot.
"Don't shoot!" he gasped, while his color changed to a livid green.
"I--I didn't mean nothin', I swar I didn't, Miss Graham. I was
only--foolin'!" and he tried to smile a sickly smile; but his eyes fell
before the stern glance of the gray eyes fixed so unwaveringly on him.
"Go to your room!" said Hilda, briefly. He hesitated. The lock clicked,
and the girl took deliberate aim.
"I'm goin'!" shrieked the rascal, and began backing towards the door,
while Hilda followed step by step, still covering him with her deadly(!)
weapon. They crossed the kitchen and the back hall in this way, and
Simon stumbled against the narrow stairs which led to his garret
room.
"I dassn't turn round to g' up!" he whined; "ye'll shoot me in the
back." No answer; but the lock clicked again, more ominously than
before. He turned and fled up the stairs, muttering curses under his
breath. Hildegarde closed the door at the foot of the stairs, which
generally stood open, bolted it, and pushed a heavy table against it.
Then she went back into the kitchen, sat down in her own little chair,
and--laughed!
Yes, laughed! The absurdity of the whole episode, the ruffian quaking
and fleeing before the empty pistol, her own martial fierceness and
sanguinary determination, struck her with irresistible force, and peal
after peal of silvery laughter rang through the kitchen.
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