“O Mrs. Beasley!” screamed Phoebe. “Are you hurt?”
Debby, of course, did not hear the question. She continued to groan and scream for help. Her lungs were not injured, at all events. The schoolmistress, dropping on her knees, reached into the sulky top and tugged at the seat. It was rather tightly wedged, but she managed to loosen it and pull it toward her.
The widow raised herself on an elbow and looked out between the flowers of her smashed bonnet.
“Who is it?” she demanded. “Oh, is that you, Miss Dorcas? Oh, my soul and body! Oh, my stars! Oh, my goodness me!”
“Are you hurt?” shrieked Phoebe.
“Hey? I don't know! I don't know WHAT I be! I don't know nothin'!”
“Can you help yourself? Can you get up?”
“Hey? I don't know. Maybe I can if you haul that everlastin' seat out of the way. Oh, my sakes alive!”
Her rescuer pulled the seat forward, and, with an effort, tumbled it clear of the curtains. Debby raised herself still higher.
“Oh!” she groaned. “Talk about—Land sakes! who's comin'? Men, ain't it? Let me out of here quick! QUICK!”