“Beg your pardon?” said Miss Nutler, with studied courtesy. “I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
“Leave that little girl alone,” he repeated sharply. “If she’s done anything wrong, it’s for others to punish her, not you.”
“I don’t wish to ’old any conversation with you,” said the young woman sedately. “Kindly mind your own business.”
“Leggo my wrist,” cried the small girl agonizedly. “Come and make her, Bobbie Lancaster. She’ll—she’ll break my arm.”
Master Lancaster darted through the gates. The small girl’s face was white with pain; Miss Nutler’s face yellow with defiance. He released the small girl quickly, and she ran off. Miss Nutler staggered hack, and fell, an ungraceful heap, on the ground.
“’Elp! ’Elp! Murder!” yelled Miss Nutler. “Fi—yer!”
“Now what are you kicking up a row for?” demanded Bobbie.
“He’s killed me,” declared Miss Nutler, panting, to the mother of her cottage, who had hastened out to ascertain the cause of disturbance. “Oh, the villain! Oh, fetch a doctor! Oh, don’t let him make his escape!”
“I’m not going to make no escape,” said the boy sturdily. “I never knocked her down; she fell down.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Nutler. “To think that he should tell a untruth. Oh, I wonder he ain’t struck down before my very eyes! Oh, I’m going into ’sterricks!”