“Why, I declare for it, ef it ain't Mr. Morton! I thought 'twas you that fired at me.”
“I hope you are not hurt,” said Mr. Morton, finding a difficulty in preserving his gravity.
“I dunno,” said the old lady dubiously, pulling up her sleeve, and examining her arm. “I don't see nothin'; but I expect I've had some injury to my inards. I feel as ef I'd had a shock somewhere. Do you think he'll fire again?” she asked, with a sudden alarm.
“You need not feel alarmed,” was the soothing reply. “It was no doubt an accident.”
Turning suddenly, he espied Pomp peering from behind a tree, with eyes and mouth wide open. The little contraband essayed a hasty flight; but Mr. Morton, by a masterly flank movement, came upon him, and brought forward the captive kicking and struggling.
“Le' me go!” said Pomp. “I ain't done noffin'!”
“Didn't you fire a gun at this lady?”
“No,” said Pomp boldly. “Wish I may be killed ef I did!”
“I know 'twas you—you—you imp!” exclaimed Mrs. Payson, in violent indignation. “I seed you do it. You're the wust boy that ever lived, and you'll be hung jest as sure as I stan' here!”
“How did it happen, Pomp?” asked Mr. Morton quietly.