“Are you mad, fool, what do you mean?” said Madame furiously.
“Mis’ Ollie done gone in der Gully ter fetch ole hat, an’ de fire’s crope up, an’ it’ll cotch her, oh Lordy! oh Lordy! An’ Mas’r Ezra he done gone ter fin’ her down dar,” said the boy, beginning to whimper.
Madame gripped his shoulder with a grasp of iron.
“Be quiet, and tell me what you mean. Sister Olive has gone home, I passed her myself with her hat under her arm, and she told me to tell Ezra she had gone back.”
“De Lord be praised!” ejaculated Napoleon Pompey. “Den it’s on’y Mas’r Ezra’ll be burnt. Yah, you lemme go!”
This exclamation was in answer to the sudden pressure of Madame’s hand, which was like the clutch of a vice.
“Where is Ezra? Tell me or I’ll wring your neck,” she said in a voice the like of which Napoleon Pompey had never heard before in his life.
“Down dar,” said he terrified, pointing to the Gully.
“Show me where he started from.”
Madame still kept her hand upon Napoleon Pompey who hurried to the spot where Ezra had stood.