"Oh, Jed," she breathed, "what is it?"
Jed did not reply. Phineas could not.
"Oh, Jed, what is it?" repeated Ruth. "I heard him shouting my
name. I was in the yard and I heard it. . . . Oh, Jed, what IS
it?"
Babbitt at last managed to wriggle partially clear. He was crazy
with rage, but he was not frightened. Fear of physical violence
was not in his make-up; he was no coward.
"I'll tell you what it is," he screamed. "I'll tell you what it
is: I've found out about you and that stuck-up crook of a brother
of yours. He's a thief. That's what he is, a thief and a
jailbird. He stole at Middleford and now he's stole again here.
And Jed Winslow and you are--"
He got no further, being once more stoppered like a bottle by the
Winslow grip and the Winslow hand. He wriggled and fought, but he
was pinned and helpless, hands, feet and vocal organs. Jed did not
so much as look at him; he looked only at Ruth.
Her pallor had increased. She was trembling.
"Oh, Jed," she cried, "what does he mean? What does he mean by--by
'again--here'?"
Jed's grip tightened over his captive's mouth.
"He doesn't mean anything," he declared, stoutly. "He don't know
what he means."
From behind the smothering fingers came a defiant mumble. Ruth
leaned forward.
"Jed," she begged, "does he--does he know about--about--"
Jed nodded.
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