From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and pans and a babel of
women's voices, the shrill commands of old Mrs. Bolum rising above
them. The feast was preparing. Its hour was at hand. Apollo never
was a match for Bacchus, and Perry Thomas could not command attention
once Mrs. Bolum appeared on the scene. He realized this. Her cries
came as an inspiration to action. In the twilight I lost him, but the
lamp-light disclosed him standing over Henry Holmes, who had been
driven into a corner and was held prisoner there by a threatening
finger. There was a whispered parley that ended only when the old man
surrendered and, stepping to the centre of the room, rapped long and
loud on the floor with his cane.

Henry is always blunt. He has a way of getting right at the heart of
things with everyone except Bolum. For Isaac, he regards
circumlocution as necessary, taking the ground that with him the
quantity and not the quality of the words counts. So when he had
silenced the company, and with a sweep of his cane had driven them into
close order about the walls, he said: "Mr. Thomas is anxious to make an
address."

At this moment Mr. Thomas was about to step into the zone of fire of a
hundred eyes. There was a very audible titter in the corner where
three thoughtless young girls had squeezed themselves into one
rocking-chair. The orator heard it and brought his heels together with
a click.

"Mind what I told you, Henery," he whispered very loud, glaring at Mr.
Holmes.