“Oh, look out!” he gasped; “yer’s pushin’ me! Yer—yer’s steppin’ on me! Oh, turn me loose!”
“Get out o’ yere!” a coarse voice called in his ear, “You’ll get killed, an’ good riddance if you do!”
He felt them closing in over him, while he slipped to the ground—tramping on over him, pushing, tramping on, while, a limp, wounded little heap, he tried to raise his head, and felt it knock back again in the dust.
“Mis’—Mis’ Simons—wouldn’ nuver ’a’ let yer—done me—dat-a-way!” he whispered vaguely. He raised his head again, feeling confusedly for it as he sat up, gazing stupidly around. Then he pulled himself to his feet and limped aimlessly around in a circle.
“Where’s I gwine?” he mumbled. “Mis’ Simons! ... Mis’ Simons—wouldn’ nuver ’a’ let yer—done me—dat-a-way!” He stumbled off across the side-walk into the grass, unheeded by a still confused, noisy crowd. In the grass he still stumbled on.
“Mis’ Simons—wouldn’ nuver ’a’ let yer—’a’ let yer—done me—” As he slipped down again into the grass, his eyes closed.
“‘’TAIN’ GWINE NOBODY ELSE GIT—FRU—DAT—DO’,’ SHE SAY”
A crowd of angry, excited men seemed to be still before him—but Mrs. Simons stood with her back to the door, looking down at them with a white face. From a step beside her he seemed to be still looking up at her, while her low, vibrating voice seemed to be still echoing—echoing: