“Take care!” repeated Young America. “She’s got a snake in her bosom! There! don’t you see its head peeping out?”
“Mercy!” exclaimed the lady, springing away from Mrs. Jeckyl, who, in trying to catch George, ran against her.
“Snakes! Snakes! Old Snakes!” screamed the little rebel, dancing with delight, and soon attracting a crowd of men, women, and children to the spot.
“Where are the snakes?” asked one and another.
“There she goes! Don’t you see her? That is Old Snakes!” answered the laughing boy, pointing to Mrs. Jeckyl, who, a second time discomfited by weapons for which she had neither shield nor armor, was acting on the principle that discretion was the better part of valor, and making a hasty retreat from the battle-field.
“You’re a very rude little boy,” said a grave old gentleman.
“And she’s a very wicked woman,” answered little Don’t Care, looking boldly up into the speaker’s face.
“Why did you call her Snakes?” inquired the man: “there’s no sense in that.”
“If you’d looked into her eyes, you’d have seen them,” replied George, half carelessly; and then, grasping the outstretched hand of his sister Agnes, he withdrew from the little crowd, and passed with quick steps homeward.