Mrs. De Witt attempted an imitation, but having been uninstructed in deportment as a child, and inexperienced in riper years, she got her limbs entangled, and when she had arrived at a sitting posture was unable to extricate herself with ease.
In attempting to recover her erect position she precipitated herself against a treacle barrel and upset it. A gush of black saccharine matter spread over the floor.
'Where is my son?' shouted Mrs. De Witt, her temper having broken control.
'You shall pay for the golden syrup,' said Mrs. Musset.
'Golden syrup!' jeered Mrs. De Witt, 'common treacle, the cleanings of the niggers' feet that tread out the sugar-cane.'
'It shall be put down to you!' cried the mistress of the store, defying her customer across the black river. 'I will have a summons out against you for the syrup.'
'And I will have a search-warrant for my son.'
'I have not got him. I should be ashamed to keep him under my respectable roof.'
'What is this disturbance about?' asked Mr. Musset, coming into the shop with his pipe.
'I want my son,' cried the incensed mother. 'He has not been seen since he came here last night. What have you done to him?'