"Don't be in a hurry to let out a yawp; if dere's any hollerin' to be done, I'll take charge of it."
Golcher was as helpless as a child in the vise-like grip of those iron fingers. He not only was unable to speak, but he found it hard work to breathe.
Dropping his gun, he threw up both hands in a frantic effort to loosen the clutch of those fingers.
"Why, Gravity," said the horrified Maggie; "I'm afraid you will strangle him."
"And I'm afraid I won't," replied the African, putting on a little more pressure.
Gravity, however, had no intention of proceeding to extremities, though he might have found justification in so doing. He regulated the pressure of his powerful right hand so that his victim, by putting forth his best efforts, was able to get enough breath to save himself.
"Young man," said Gravity, still holding him fast, "I don't think dis am a healthy place for you; de best ting you can do am to leave a little sooner dan possible."
"Let—me—let—me—go!" gurgled Golcher, still vainly trying to free himself.
"I don't find dat I've got much use for you, so I'll let you off, but de next time I lays hand onto you, you won't got off so easy, and bein' as you am goin', I'll give you a boost."
To the delight of Aunt Peggy and the horror of Maggie Brainerd, Gravity Gimp now wheeled the Tory around as though he were the smallest child, and actually delivered a kick that lifted him clear of the ground.