In the upper
hallway Mother Borton stood by an open door, silhouetted dark and
threatening against the dim flickerings that came from the candle in
the room behind her.
I had but opened my mouth to give her word of greeting when she raised
a warning claw, and then seizing me, drew me swiftly into the room and
closed and locked the door.
"How air ye, dearie?" she said, surveying me with some apparent pride.
"You're safe and whole, ain't ye?"
As the candlelight fell on her face, she seemed older and more like a
bird of prey than ever. The nose and chin had taken a sharper cast, the
lines of her face were deeper drawn with the marks of her evil life,
and her breath was strong with the strength of water-front whisky. But
her eyes burned bright and keen as ever in their sunken sockets, with
the fire of her fevered brain behind them.
"I am safe," I said, "though I had a close shave in Chinatown."
"I heerd of it," said Mother Borton sourly. "I reckon it ain't much
good to sit up nights to tell you how to take keer of yourself. It's a
wonder you ever growed up. Your mammy must 'a' been mighty keerful
about herdin' ye under cover whenever it rained."
"I _was_ a little to blame," I admitted, "but your warning was not
thrown away. I thought I was well-guarded."
Mother Borton sniffed contemptuously.
"I s'pose you come down here alone?"
"No." And I explained the disposition of my forces.
"That's not so bad," she said. "They could git up here soon enough, I
reckon, if there was a row.
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