"
Tracy's hand went down into his pocket with angry decision. But--it
didn't come out. The color began to ebb out of his face. The
countenances about him showed a growing interest; and some of them a
heightened satisfaction. There was an uncomfortable pause--then he
forced out, with difficulty, the words:
"I've--been robbed!"
Old Marsh's eyes flamed up with Spanish fire, and he exclaimed:
"Robbed, is it? That's your tune? It's too old--been played in this
house too often; everybody plays it that can't get work when he wants it,
and won't work when he can get it. Trot out Mr. Allen, somebody, and let
him take a toot at it. It's his turn next, he forgot, too, last night.
I'm laying for him."
One of the negro women came scrambling down stairs as pale as a sorrel
horse with consternation and excitement:
"Misto Marsh, Misto Allen's skipped out!"
"What!"
"Yes-sah, and cleaned out his room clean; tuck bofe towels en de soap!"
"You lie, you hussy!"
"It's jes' so, jes' as I tells you--en Misto Summer's socks is gone, en
Misto Naylor's yuther shirt."
Mr. Marsh was at boiling point by this time. He turned upon Tracy:
"Answer up now--when are you going to settle?"
"To-day--since you seem to be in a hurry.
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