's
bad enough to hear you call poor Charlie names, but when you start
in on Ruth--on Mrs. Armstrong, I mean--that's too much. You've got
to stop."

This speech was made quietly and with all the customary Winslow
deliberation and apparent calm, but there was one little slip in it
and that slip Babbitt was quick to notice.

"Oh, my!" he sneered. "Ruth's what we call her, eh? Ruth! Got so
chummy we call each other by our first names. Ruthie and Jeddie, I
presume likely. Aw, haw, haw!"

Jed's pallor was, for the moment, succeeded by a vivid crimson. He
stammered. Phineas burst into another scornful laugh.

"Haw, haw, haw!" he crowed. "She lets him call her Ruth. Oh, my
Lord A'mighty! Let's Shavin's Winslow call her that. Well, I
guess I sized her up all right. She must be about on her brother's
level. A thief and--"

"Shut up, Phin!"

"Shut up? YOU tell me to shut up!"

"Yes."

"Well, I won't. Ruth Armstrong! What do I care for--"

The speech was not finished. Jed had taken one long stride to
where Babbitt was standing, seized the furious little creature by
the right arm with one hand and with the other covered his open
mouth, covered not only the mouth, but a large section of face as
well.

"You keep quiet, Phin," he drawled. "I want to think."

Phineas struggled frantically. He managed to get one corner of his
mouth from behind that mammoth hand.

"Ruth Armstrong!" he screamed. "Ruth Armstrong is--"

The yell died away to a gurgle, pinched short by the Winslow
fingers. Then the door leading to the kitchen, the door behind the
pair, opened and Ruth Armstrong herself came in. She was pale and
she stared with frightened eyes at the little man struggling in the
tall one's clutch.

"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