"Giv' em the keys, Marthy. They're a killin me," screeched Bement.
The woman had set her teeth. Her face was a little whiter, the red
spots under her cheek bones were a little smaller and a little redder
than before. That was all the sign she gave. Putting her hand
convulsively over the spot on her bosom where the desired articles
were secreted, she replied in a shrill voice:
"I shell keep the keys, Cephas. It's my dewty. Pray, Cephas, that I
may hev strength given me ter dew my dewty."
"Ye won't see me killed 'fore yer eyes, will ye, give em the keys I
tell ye," shrieked Bement, as they began to swing him, and Abner said:
"One."
The woman looked a bit more like going into hysterics, but not a whit
more like yielding.
"Mebbe t'wont kill ye, an they can't bust the door, nohow. Mebbe they'll
git tuckered 'fore long. If wust comes to wust, it's a comfort ter know
ez ye're a perfesser in good stannin."
Bement had doubtless had previous experience of a certain tenacity of
purpose on the part of his spouse, for ceasing to address further
adjurations to her, he began to appeal for mercy to the men.
"Two," said Abner, as they swung him again.
Now, Mrs. Poor and Prudence, having been thrust out of the barroom
just before the mob thundered up against the barred door, had been
borne back into the room again by the rush when the door was opened,
and it was Mrs.
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