The argument waxed and waned.

Followed the click of a spoon against glass.

And then came a gasp, a gurgle, a choking yell; and high upon the salty air enveloping Eastboro Twin-Lights rose the voice of Mr.Seth Atkins, expressing his opinion of the "Stomach Balm" and those who administered it.
John Brown darted out of the kitchen, dodged around the corner of the house, tiptoed past the bench by the bluff, where Mr.Stover sat gloomily meditating, and ran lightly down the path to the creek and the wharf.

The boathouse at the end of the wharf offered a convenient refuge.

Into the building he darted, closed the door behind him, and collapsed upon a heap of fish nets.
At three-thirty that afternoon, Mr.Atkins, apparently quite recovered, was sitting in the kitchen rocker, reading a last week's newspaper, one of a number procured on his most recent trip to the village.