Presently Tump Pack's form outlined itself in the yellow obscurity, groping toward Peter. He still held his pistol, but it swung at his side. He called Peter's name in the strained voice of a man struggling not to cough:
"Peter—is Mr. Bobbs done—'rested Cissie?"
Peter could hardly talk himself.
"Don't know. Looks like it."
The two negroes stared at each other through the dust.
"Fuh Gawd's sake! Cissie 'rested!" Tump began to cough. Then he wheezed:
"Mine an' yo' little deal's off, Peter. You gotta he'p git her out." Here he fell into a violent fit of coughing, and started groping his way to the edge of the dust-cloud.
In the rush of the moment the swift change in Peter's situation appeared only natural. He followed Tump, so distressed by the dust and disturbed over Cissie that he hardly thought of his peculiar position. The dust pinched the upper part of his throat, stung his nose. Tears trickled from his eyes, and he pressed his finger against his upper lip, trying not to sneeze. He was still struggling against the sneeze when Tump recovered his speech.
"Wh-whut you reckon she done, Peter? She don' shoot craps, nor boot- laig, nor—" He fell to coughing.
Peter got out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.