"Mither of Moses! what are ye a-doin'? Let go me hair, or I'll scrame
for the perlice;" and forthwith there went up just outside of the
drawing-room door a scream in the unmistakable voice of Bridget, which
must have reached the traditionally absent policeman, no matter how
far he was away.
The company had now started to their feet in astonishment and fright.
"Queltzcoatchstepukulistini!"--or that was what the response sounded
like.
Another scream from Bridget.
"Akuishnapaccademipechacquinishcrekepa!"
In another instant an extraordinary group reeled into the
doorway--Ogla-Moga, with his robes torn and spattered, his paint
smeared out of its original lines and colors, and his face furrowed
with scratches inflicted by the hands of Bridget--Ogla-Moga drunk,
utterly drunk, and brandishing in the air a glittering carving-knife;
and Bridget--alas! drunk too--with her hair in the firm grasp of the
Indian, who was pulling her along.
There was a universal shriek of horror. Three of the ladies bolted
through the only door which the Indian did not occupy, and which
opened into a small bedroom. They frantically pulled it shut, just as
three other ladies seized the knob on the outside and tried to pull it
open. As luck would have it, Miss Ayr and her mother and Mrs. Blenkin
were on the inside, and the two Misses Pound were on the outside--a
fact which did not seem to diminish the natural anxiety of the ladies
on either side of the door for their personal safety. At all events,
the tug of war went on. Mr. Blagg showed extreme terror, and being
plainly reduced by the same to a state of utter intellectual confusion
and imbecility, made an insane attempt to scale the heights of a large
what-not in the corner of the room, which, of course, promptly came
over with him, hurling him to the floor with great violence, and
falling directly upon him, while it covered his body and the larger
part of the floor with the fragments of unprecedented teapots and
alleged salad-bowls. Mrs. Gottom and her niece barricaded themselves
in the corner with a sofa, and armed themselves with huge photograph
albums to be hurled at the enemy; while Professor Phyle, who was a
prominent member of the Peace Society, quietly stepped into the window
recess, and drew the curtains in defence of his person and his
principles.
In the midst of the turmoil and dismay, Miss Tristan was heard to
exclaim, "Oh, aunty, it is Signor Barbazzo!" and her aunt was heard to
reply, with singular feeling, "Hold your tongue, child, and never
speak to me again as long as you live!" There was a marked rustle of
the curtains in front of Professor Phyle at this episode. Meantime Mr.
Michst, with a blind idea of doing something, without knowing in the
least what it ought to be, had confronted the Indian, who still stood
there muttering and shaking his knife. Just then he gave a terrible
tug at Bridget's hair, that imparted a projectile motion to her as he
swung her away from him. Her lowered head struck Mr. Michst with full
force in the neighborhood of the diaphragm, and the two went down on
the floor with a crash. Mr. Margent, the first to recover his presence
of mind, stepped over the extended toes of Miss Slopham, who had
simply dropped into a chair in a dead faint, firmly seized the
Indian's right hand, in which the knife was held, and putting his
other hand on the Indian's shoulder, gently and easily tripped him up,
and when he had got him down sat on his prostrate form. It had hardly
been done when a dark little man slipped into the room, cast a swift
glance around, and without stopping to look his astonishment, in a
flash locked a pair of handcuffs on Ogla-Moga's wrists. In the hall
outside was a vision of two policemen.
Mr. Margent, without betraying the least surprise, slowly got up,
pulled a toothpick out of his pocket, and began to use it, while he
looked down upon the Indian. "What's he done?" he asked, coolly.
"Oh, all sorts of things: killed a missionary; poured a can of
kerosene on his squaw, and tried to set her on fire, because he wanted
to take another one; and so on. The worst Kickapoo of the lot. I've
had hard work to find him; but," with a grin, "I never expected to
find him in a place like this."
Ogla-Moga had fallen asleep then and there! The harsh music of his
snore filled the room. To several persons present it had a familiar
sound. Professor Phyle, who had stuck his head out of the curtains,
drew it in again suddenly, like the timid turtle.
"Poor Ogla-Moga!" said Miss Slopham, who had recovered, and had been
listening. "What else could be expected under a cruel and despotic
government?"
"Ogla-Moga? Yes, ma'am, that's his name among the tribe. I'm the
agent's deputy. We called him Ugly-Mug, and that was the way the
Indians pronounced it. It _is_ ugly, you see, ma'am."
It _was_ ugly. It was the last blow. Miss Slopham said not another
word, and, strange to say, Mr. Blagg never mentioned these interesting
incidents in his correspondence.