“To-night; not fifteen minutes ago. I expect he’s as dead as a herring by this time!” said Pet, planting her elbows on her knees, dropping her chin in her hands, and gazing moodily into the fire.
Admiral Havenful glanced appealingly at the candlestick; but as that offered no clue to the mystery, he took off his hat, scratched his head (or, rather, his wig; for he wore one), and then clapped it on again, and turned briskly to his niece.
“Now, little hurricane! just shake out another reef or so—will you? I’m out of my latitude altogether.”
“Well, I guess you’d have been more out of it, if you had been caught as I was to-night,” said Pet, with a sort of gloomy stoicism. “I was coming through the woods, you know, between Dismal Hollow and the Barrens, when, all of a sudden, two great, big, black niggers jumped from behind the trees, and caught hold of my horse.”
With something like a snort of terror and dismay, the admiral sprung to his feet, and brandished the candlestick fiercely over his head, while waiting for what was to come.
“Body of Paul Jones! And what did you do, whirligig?”
“Why, I told them to let go, and they wouldn’t; and then I took a pistol, and shot one of them!” exclaimed Pet, with flashing eyes.
“Hoorah!” shouted the admiral, waving the candlestick delightedly above his head. “I knew there was some of the Havenful blood in you! Three cheers for Flibbertigibbet!”
“Then my horse started, and ran off, and I came right straight here,” concluded Pet, her cheeks and eyes lighting up at the exciting recollection.
“Hoorah for little Bombshell!” roared the admiral, as he sprung forward, and catching Pet’s hand, gave it a squeeze that nearly crushed the little digits. “You ought to have been a boy, Firefly! By Saint Christopher Columbus! you are a female hero, Pet!”