She opened the door and looked in.
It says much for her iron self-control that she remained quiet at this
point. A lesser person, after a far less tiring ordeal than she had
passed through, would have found relief in some cry or exclamation--
possibly even in a scream.
Against the far wall, breathing hard and fondling his left eye with a
four-ounce glove, leaned Steve Dingle. His nose was bleeding somewhat
freely, but this he appeared to consider a trifle unworthy of serious
attention. On the floor, an even more disturbing spectacle, Kirk lay at
full length. To Mrs. Porter's startled gaze he appeared to be dead. He
too, was bleeding, but he was not in a position to notice it.
"It's all right, ma'am," said Steve, removing the hand from his face
and revealing an eye which for spectacular dilapidation must have
rivalled the epoch-making one which had so excited his mother on a
famous occasion. "It's nothing serious."
"Has Mr. Winfield fainted?"
"Not exactly fainted, ma'am. It's like this. He'd got me clear up in a
corner, and I seen it's up to me if I don't want to be knocked through
the wall, so I has to cross him. Maybe I'd gotten a little worked up
myself by then. But it was my fault. I told him to go all out, and he
sure did. This eye's going to be a pippin to-morrow."
Mrs. Porter examined the wounded organ with interest.
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