“He ain’t des’ so overly turrible young, Miss Fa’ginny,” returned Cindy with her comfortable chuckle. “De big chillen mo’ skeerter dan whut he is.”
Virginia, full of indignation, sprang from the carriage. “Tek keer, honey!” cautioned Uncle Vete, as she hurried through the yard. “Dey’s th’ee o’ my youngest sleepin’ dah un’neath dat ’simmon tree.”
Avoiding the slumberers beneath the persimmon, Virginia made directly for the door.
“Hol’ on! Hol’ on! My precious chile! Yo’ gwine get yo’se’f shot!” urged Vete. Cindy screamed, and all the children who were awake began to wail in concert.
Like a sensible girl, Virginia stood aside from the panels, back where the heavy logs protected her. (“An’ one dem shots might sail th’oo de chinkin’ des’ easy ez not!” Cindy whimpered.) She struck on the door and cried, “Fair—Fairfax! Open this door!”
The answer came in the form of a bullet.
“Buddy,” she said, huskily, “Buddy, dear, I brought a hack out for you.”
At the report, Cindy uttered a yell so efficient and comprehensive that Virginia supposed her no less than mortally wounded. The children, even those lying so soundly asleep on the ground that they had not been wakened when Virginia stepped almost upon them, rose up and fled to their mother’s wide-spread, sheltering arms, like a brood of alarmed chickens fleeing from a hawk.
“Eph’um! Bandoline! Baxter! Pearline! Commodory? Whey is you-all—whey is you-all? Oh, Lawdy! Lawdy! I is got mo’ child’en dan dis! I knows I’s got mo’ child’en dan whut dis is! Young Marse done kill some on ’em!” rose Cindy’s excited shriek.