"You'se boun' to go back, honey, boun' to go back inter de house, kase when de mornin' comes you'se gwine to be in a pickle wid Abel Hunt an' Horry Sims gallivantin' 'roun' tryin' to lay you by de heels. Go back in dar 'fore dey comes dis yere way!"
"But why should we go there, Uncle 'Rasmus?" I cried angrily. "Why shut ourselves up in a trap where the Britishers may lay hands on us whenever they may be so disposed?"
"You'se gwine back dar, honey, kase dere ain' any odder place in dis yere village. Dere's no show ob gettin' trou de lines now, chile, an' what you'se needin' is dem yere guns what we done hid under de floor."
"You're crazy, Uncle 'Rasmus! You're crazy to think we three lads may stand up against all these Britishers!" and now indeed did I lose my temper; but Uncle 'Rasmus, still holding my head where he could make certain every word he spoke might be heard by me, said earnestly:
"Tell me whar's you gwine to go, honey, ef you don' hide yoursef in ole Mary's cabin? Does you count on bein' run 'roun' dis yere village when de sun comes up, like a fox wid a houn' at his tail? Ef de Britishers hab begun to get across to Gloucester Point, dere's a chance dey'll keep at it when de riber quiets down, an' all you chillun's needin' to do is keep whar you can hol' your own. Get back inter de cabin, honey!"
Then it was that Uncle 'Rasmus took me by the arm with a strength which I never suspected was in his frail body, and although I struggled not, he literally dragged me through that howling, raging tempest to the hovel which I thought I had left never to return, and we two entered, the water running in streams from our garments as we stood in the middle of the floor silent and motionless, each striving, most like, to decide what should next be done.