“Laws, Miss Eas’man! it’s goin’ to be in the paper. Paper’ll be chock full of it to-morrow.”
“O, I guess it’s not true,” said Muriel, slowly, with a relieved smile. “It must be a false alarm, Charles.”
“My gosh, Miss Eas’man, I don’t believe there’s one word of truth in it,” said Tugmutton, puckering out his great lips with an air of precocious contempt, and whirling his cap on his hand. “Never could make me believe one word of that story. It’s jus’ nothin’ but a weak invention of the enemy.”
The phrase, which Tugmutton had picked up from somebody, was so odd in his childish mouth, and so oddly expressed, that Emily burst into a fit of laughter, and threw herself into a chair, while both Mrs. Eastman and Muriel smiled. Tugmutton grinned delightedly at the effect of his speech, and then looked awfully demure and dignified.
“Anyhow,” he continued, “all them foolish colored folks are believin’ that story. Them folks has jus’ got no gumption, anyway. Talkin’ about that story in the street, now—millions of them.”
“Are the colored people out in the street, Charles?” asked Mrs. Eastman.
“In the street? Laws, Missus Eas’man, Southac street’s full of ’em,” returned Tugmutton.
“There may be something in it, after all, mother,” said Muriel. “I’ll go.”
“Bless me, Muriel, are you not afraid?” exclaimed Emily.