“Oh mercy! don’t murder us!” shrieked Mrs. Keene, falling on her knees; while her husband, whose capsicum was completely roused, began pummelling Ashburn as high as he could reach, bestowing on him at the same time, in no very choice terms, his candid opinion as to the propriety of setting people’s houses on fire, by way of revenge.
“Why, you’re both as crazy as loons!” was Mr. Ashburn’s polite exclamation, as he held off Mr. Keene at arm’s length. “I was comin’ up o’ purpose to tell you that you needn’t be frightened. It’s only the ruff o’ the shanty, there,—the kitchen, as you call it.”
“And what have you done with Clarissa?”—“Ay! where’s my niece?” cried the distracted pair.
“Where is she? why, down stairs to be sure, takin’ care o’ the traps they throw’d out o’ the shanty. I was out a ’coon-hunting, and see the light, but I was so far off that they’d got it pretty well down before I got here. That ’ere young spark of Clary’s worked like a beaver, I tell ye!”
“You need not attempt,” solemnly began Mr. Keene, “you need not think to make me believe, that you are not the man that set my house on fire. I know your revengeful temper; I have heard of your threats, and you shall answer for all, sir! before you’re a day older!”
Ashburn seemed struck dumb, between his involuntary respect for Mr. Keene’s age and character, and the contemptuous anger with which his accusations filled him. “Well! I swan!” said he after a pause; “but here comes Clary; she’s got common sense; ask her how the fire happened.”
“It’s all over now, uncle,” she exclaimed, almost breathless, “it has not done so very much damage.”
“Damage!” said Mrs. Keene, dolefully; “we shall never get things clean again while the world stands!”
“And where are my birds?” inquired the old gentleman.
“All safe—quite safe; we moved them into the parlour.”