They did not speak until he had driven past town limits and were on the highway. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. “Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle. "But, what of that? It'll be a lesson to him in future, and will show him the folly of doing a good-natured action!" But perceiving that his companion did not relish his pleasantry and fearing that his sympathy for the carpenter's situation might betray him into some act of imprudence, Jonathan, without further remark, and by way of putting an end to the discussion, let himself drop through the roof. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. But just as they were about to place him on the ground, he burst from their hold, and made a desperate spring at Jonathan, who was standing with his arms folded near the door watching the scene.
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