“Well, of all de cur’ousest an strornar est things!” he exclaimed. “Ef dis don’t beat all creation holler, den I’m a niggar. An me in a fight—a rail battle; no play, mind you; but a fight for life and def. Clar ef I can understan it.”
And Solomon buried his head in his hands, quite overcome.
“Anyhow,” he resumed after a pause, “ye see how it was, chil’en. Dat ar demon was a plungin an a jumpin, an I see he was makin for you; so I ‘termined I’d hab a shy at him. Couldn’t stan dat ar nohow. Ain’t a fightin man; but dat ar Ingin war so dreadful aggravatin; mor’n flesh an blood could stan. Anyhow, I did gib him nuff ob it for one spell; an he’ll tink twicet afore he tackle any ob us agin.”
“I never was so astonished in my life,” said Bart. “And how you did pitch into him!” he continued, admiringly. “Why, you gave a leap like a tiger. Down he went, with you on top—at his throat.”
Solomon laughed long, joyously, and uproariously. He chuckled, he giggled, he slapped his knees, and finally he threw himself flat on his back, and lay there, laughing, chuckling, crowing, and making a confused medley of noises, all of which were intended by him to be expressive of triumph and exultation.
“Clar ef I know what ebber did git hold ob me dat time,” he said, in the intervals of his laughter. “Specs I mus hab gone clean mad an rabin stracted. Didn’t tink dar was so much clar fight in me. Ain’t such a rheumatic old nig, arter all. Fight any drunken Ingin on de face ob de erf. Ki yi! Yep! Ho-o-o-o-o! Dat’s so.”
At all this the boys looked on without saying anything, wondering at the change. Could this be the same man, thought Bart, that had always seemed so helpless? whose “rheumatiz” seemed always to prevent the slightest exertion? Could this be the same Solomon who allowed himself to be captured by a parcel of Gaspereaugian boys? Could this be the same man whom he had seen only a day or two before, cowering and cringing at the sight of an angry woman? Was the Solomon over whom Black Betsy had tyrannized so remorselessly indeed the same one who had just flung himself at the throat of a madman, and overpowered him? It seemed incredible.
Yet it was no other. Already Solomon was himself again, his old natural self. Already he began to investigate his joints, and to murmur doleful anticipations of a fresh attack of rheumatiz. But the boys had other things than this to think of. The question now was, how to pass the night. They did not feel altogether safe. The madman who had just threatened them had fled; but it seemed to them as though he was still lurking somewhere near them in the shadow of the gloomy forest, waiting his chance; waiting till they should go to sleep, so that he might rush upon them unawares. If they wished to sleep at all, it would never do, they thought, for them to sleep here with the firelight shining upon them, and revealing them to the gaze of their enemy. They must seek some other place.
On mentioning this to Solomon, he objected very strongly.
“Dar’s no danger, chil’en,” he said. “Dat ar Injun won’t ebber come back agin. He darsn’t. He nebber forget my grip. I frikend dat ar Injun away forebbermo.”