(Via:Here.)
"Anything further I can do for you, ma'am?""Thank you, that is absolutely sufficient," she said in her premier schoolteacher voice—attempting to quash the ill-bred bubble of laughter—that brawled for release inside her throat.
A sequel to scene 8
He hauled her up—and they stood almost touching for a fugacious mo. Agathe stepped away and—looked down helter-skelter brushing at her mucky skirt. When she turned around—the tippler was still lolling in the street. "Is he….is he hurt?"
"I doubt it," the tall stranger said—as if it were of no gravity.
As if to authenticate his statement—the tippler began to sniff like crazy. Agathe bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. "Are you going to just leave him lolling there in the street, Mr…..ah….?"
"Gabriel of the camp Greenwood Indian Scouts, at your service, ma'am." He nodded, sneeringly. "Is there anywhere else you'd rather have me leave him?"
Agathe scanned his face. Was that a twinkle in his eye? She couldn't tell. Well—he might be run over by a carriage," she said—shrugging off the rareness of traffic. "Or….or trampled by a horse!"
Would that torture you? In that instance I'll purge him to safer quarters." Gabriel stepped off the sidewalk and into the street—picked the man up and dangled him over his shoulder with a facility that spoke of the disguised energy in his lean frame.
With cogitation he walked over—to the barrel set at the end of a dirt-plugged gutter spout in the disconsolate hope of snatching rainwater. Like a spellcaster—he folded the unconscious drifter in half, then stuffed him into the receptacle—a grimed paprika in an oak-staved olive. All that could be seen were the soles of a pair of abraded boots—much run-down at the heels, and the battered brown hat that Gabriel set neatly on the man's head.
Agathe watched—mouth half-open. She didn't know whether to grin or fuss but was much leaned toward the former. Her sides were trembling with suppressed euphoria. Gabriel advanced down the boardwalk with an easy pace that rejected the effects of the broiling heat. "Anything further I can do for you, ma'am?"
"Thank you, that is absolute sufficient," she said in her premier schoolteacher voice—attempting to quash the ill-bred bubble of laughter that brawled for release inside her throat. By the beam that quirked Gabriel's mouth up at one corner—she knew he had seen past her pose.