But not only did Swallow refuse to abdicate but he
seemed to take decided exceptions to the feminine method of appeal. He
evidently did not like to be called "doggie," "pet," "dearie," and all
such.
"He won't come," she cried plaintively.
"I have it!" he exclaimed, his face brightening. "Will you hand me that
three-tined pitchfork over there? With that in my hands I'll make
Swallow see--Look out! For heaven's sake, don't go near him! He'll kill
you." She had taken two or three steps toward the dog, her hand extended
pleadingly, only to be met by an ominous growl, a fine display of teeth,
and a bristling back. As if paralyzed, she halted at the foot of the
ladder, terror suddenly taking possession of her.
"Can you get the pitchfork?"
"I am afraid to move," she moaned. "He is horrible--horrible!"
"I'll come down, Mrs. Delancy, and hang the consequences," Crosby cried,
and was suiting the action to the word when she cried out in
remonstrance.
"Don't come down--don't! He'll kill you. I forbid you to come down, Mr.
Crosby.
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