Poor who now made a diversion.
"Look a here, Abner Rathbun," she said. "W'at in time's the use of
murd'rin the man? He hain't done nothin. It's the woman, as has got
the keys. She wouldn' let me inter see Zadkiel, an I'm jess a itchin
tew git my hands ontew her, an that's the trewth, ef I be a perfesser.
You let the man alone. I'll git them keys, or my name ain't
Resignation Ann Poor."
There was a general murmur of approval, and without waiting for orders
from Perez, Abner and his helpers let Bement drop, and he scrambled to
his feet.
Mrs. Bement began to pant. She knew well enough that she had nothing
to fear from all the men in Massachusetts, but one of her own sex was
a more formidable enemy. And, indeed, a much more robust person than
the jailer's little wife, might have been excused for not relishing a
tussle with the tall, rawboned old woman, with hands brown, muscular,
and labor hardened as a man's, who now laid her big green sunbonnet on
the counter, and stepping to the open end of the bar, advanced toward
her. Mrs. Poor held her hands before her about breast high, at half
arm's length, elbows depressed, palms turned outward, the fingers
curved like a cat's claws.
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