“Think I was ’sleep?” he called. “Di’ y’ think--steal m’ wife when I was ’sleep?” His voice shrilled in the room. He began to hurl at the door inept anathemas against the treachery of wives and the cowardice of men. He made uncouth accusations. He delivered himself of bizarre philosophies; sometimes mumbling, sometimes shrilling his words. He twisted his shoulders, stepping about in a small space. His voice quavered, rising and falling. His head tossed as if he rode in a boat. But the silence at last reduced him to silence. The labor of thought again showed in his face. Something was eluding him. Yes, he had forgotten something he was going to do. He tried hard in his own way, opening and shutting his mouth, blinking and searching the floor with his aimless eyes. Sometimes mutterings fell out of his mouth. He smiled again. Something stirred him. Now he remembered what he had forgotten. He lifted the hand that held the revolver and aimed his wavering gaze down toward it. He raised his eyebrows and blinked. He turned the gun over this way and that, staring and blinking as if he had never seen one before in all his life. His face was pulled out of shape with the labor of cogitation. He began to smirk. He looked toward the door again, opening and shutting his mouth; and at last he delivered himself: “Di’ y’ think I was go’ shoo’ m’self? Di’ y’ think I was go’ shoo’ m’self?” His head sank on his breast and his eyes half closed. But he heaved his head up again and opened his eyes. “Ah, sure, sure,” he called. “Steal m’ wife an’ I shoo’ m’self. Sure! sure!” He laughed. But the laugh crumpled up in the silence. His eyes were witless. It looked as though his pale head had talked without his knowing it. He wagged his head and announced solemnly: “I’ll shoo’ you.” He waited a moment, trying to keep his gaze on the door, and repeated more loudly: “I’ll shoo’ you. I’ll shoo’ you.” He smiled down at the revolver and patted the barrel with an aimless motion. “We know where fin’ ’im, don’t we?” he said to the revolver. His eyes brightened and he became a little steadier smirking at the door, he called loudly, “We know where fin’ ’im. We know where fin’ ’im.” He turned, and like a man walking in the dark he made his way to the couch. Here he laid the revolver down. With much labor and fumbling he gathered up his overcoat. With much labor he began to put it on. Half way through the job he paused, turned, and sent a wavering look toward the door. “Di’ y’ think I do’ know where fin’ im?” he jibed.