The woman gave a sniff of scorn.
“’Fraid! De Smith-Pocahontases ain’t ’fraid o’ nothin’, let alone bullets.”
“They’ve got pluck enough, I suppose; what they lack is judgment. I wouldn’t have stood there.”
“Nobody’s accusin’ you!”
“Did anybody else get hurt?”
“Yes, we all got hit ’cep’ de blon’ twin en de doctor en de seconds. De Jedge didn’t git hurt, but I hear Pudd’nhead say de bullet snip some o’ his ha’r off.”
“’George!” said Tom to himself, “to come so near being out of my trouble, and miss it by an inch. Oh dear, dear, he will live to find me out and sell me to some nigger-trader yet—yes, and he would do it in a minute.” Then he said aloud, in a grave tone—
“Mother, we are in an awful fix.”
Roxana caught her breath with a spasm, and said—
“Chile! What you hit a body so sudden for, like dat? What’s be’n en gone en happen’?”