In proof of the shock to her nervous system Mrs. Fogg dropped herself upon the stone from which she had drugged Flea, and began to suck in her breath loudly and irregularly, as if the air were a thick fluid, fanning herself at the same time with her gingham apron.
"I was sitting here thinking, Mrs. Fogg, on my way from school," stammered the girl, really shaken by the adventure. "It's one of my favorite resting-places."
"I wouldn't come hyur much ef I was you, honey," sinking her voice, and glancing over her shoulder at the closed door. "It's a norful place for snakes an' scarripens" (scorpions) "an' lizards. An' it's wuss fur ha'nts. I've been see things here with my own two eyes o' nights, an' heered sech scritchin' an' bellerin' as 'mos' tarrified me to death. Stay 'way from hyur, honey. You're too sweet an' pretty to be cyarried off by the ole Satan."
Flea collected her bag, books, and slate from the ground, and gave a hard, miserable laugh.
"Satan lives in a better house than this, Mrs. Fogg. He wears broadcloth every day and Sunday too, and a fine gold watch and chain. I've seen him too often to be afraid of him."
The old woman pricked up her ears sharply; her bony hand reached up to clutch Flea's wrist.
"What you talkin' 'bout, honey-pie? Ole Nick couldn't w'ar a gold watch"—cackling at her joke; "'twould git melted. Don' yer understan'?"
"He lays it on the desk by him to see how long boys and girls can stand the torment," rushed on the girl, recklessly. "He lives most of the time in the school-house. That's his work-shop, where he ruins people's souls and tortures their bodies. Look here, Mrs. Fogg! I told you once that I'd ask Major Duncombe to let your grandchildren go to school. He's been away from home ever since, and I haven't had a chance to speak to him. I tell you now that I don't mean to ask him any such thing. They'd better grow up dunces, without knowing their A B C's, than to go to school to that—that—Evil!"
It was the strongest word she could think of, and she flung it out in a passion of loathing. The crone eyed her curiously, making odd noises in her throat, like a clucking hen.
"You don' say so—you don' say so—now! I suttinly is mighty sorry to hear it, my sweet young lady. I was jes a-sayin' to my daughter yistiddy how I meant to stop you termorrer mornin' as you went by the gate an' remin' you o' what you done promise' me. An' the chillens are crazy to go to school. Larnin' is a mighty fine thing for anybody. That's what I keep on a-tellin' on 'em. 'Larnin' is a good thing,' says I. In the fear of the Lord, of course—"