“So it's you, you little varmint, that's done this. Jest le' me get out, and I'll whip you so you can't stan'. See ef I don't.”
“You can't get out, missus; yah, yah!” laughed Pomp. “You's tied, you is, missus.”
“Come an' help me out, this minute!” exclaimed the old lady, stamping her foot.
“Lor', missus, you'll whip me. You said you would.”
“So I will, I vum,” retorted the irate old lady, rather undiplomatically. “As true as I live, I'll whip you till you can't stan'.”
As she spoke, she brandished her umbrella in a menacing manner.
“Den, missus, I guess you'd better stay where you is.”
“Oh, you imp. See ef I don't have you put in jail. Here, you, Sam Thompson, come and help me out. Ef you don't, I'll tell your mother, an' she'll give you the wust lickin' you ever had. I'm surprised at you.”
“You won't tell on me, will you?” said Sam, irresolutely.
“I'll see about it,” said the old lady, in a politic tone.