Part 17 (2/2)

”My Gawd! My Gawd!” she wailed. ”Here I been a-slumberin' an' sleepin'

an' Miss Maria done tol' me to shopper-roon. I trus'ed de white folks an' look at 'em!” She covered her face with her hands and wept aloud.

I fancy we were something to look at. Bathing caps were off and hair wet and tangled streaming down our backs. Dee had lost a stocking in the tussle and Rags had been bereft of more than half of his s.h.i.+rt, so that his white back gleamed forth in a most immodest abandon. Shorty had tapped Harvie on the nose and that scion of a n.o.ble race was bleeding like a stuck pig. The gore added color to the scene, and had not Aunt Milly already been certain that this was a real war we were raging, the blood of her young master would have convinced her.

”Hi, you! You!” she called. ”Quit dat!”

The battle being won, we had stopped for repairs but there were still here and there some fitful hostilities. For instance: Shorty had determined that Harvie needed some cold water on his bleeding nose and was rolling him into the creek. Both of them were shouting and pommelling each other as they rolled.

As they approached the large island where our camp was pitched, Aunt Milly became very much excited. Who were these vile wretches who had accepted the hospitality of the Prices and then turned against them, and while she, the natural protector of the young master, was sleeping, had well-nigh stripped him of his clothes and then bloodied him all over with his own blue blood, which was certainly flowing very redly?

”Hi, you! You little low flung, no 'count, bench-legged tras.h.!.+ What you a-doin' ter Mr. Harbie?” she called to the all-unconscious Shorty, who was having the time of his life as he and his friend wallowed in the water, wrestling as they swam.

But Aunt Milly saw no joke in such doings. She looked around for something to use as a weapon and spied the camp fire where the corn and potatoes were being prepared to fulfill their mission. They were done to a turn by that tune and the fire had died down to a bed of red embers.

The old woman grabbed from the ashes a great yam and with an aim that astonished one, she threw it and hit Shorty a sounding whack on his back.

”Wow!” yelled that young warrior.

”You'd better wow! An' don' you lan' here; you go back ter dem Injuns whar you come wid.”

”Why, Aunt Milly! What on earth?” gasped Harvie as he saw the old woman stooping for more ammunition.

”Yo' ol' Milly gwine he'p you, dat's what!” She aimed another at the astonished Shorty, but that young man turned himself into a submarine and disappeared.

Harvie clambered out of the water spluttering and laughing. His nose had stopped bleeding now and the water had washed off all traces of the gory disaster. He caught the rampant Milly by the arm:

”Aunt Milly, it's all a joke, a game! n.o.body was abusing me. Don't throw away the potatoes, we are so hungry.”

”Lawsamussy, chile! You can't fool this ol' n.i.g.g.e.r. I's seen folks a-playin' an' I's a-seen folks a-fightin', an' if'n that there warn't a battle royal, I neber seed one.”

By this time all of us were headed for camp. As we came ash.o.r.e her expression was still a belligerent one and she had a hot potato which she tossed from hand to hand ready for an emergency.

It took all the tact the Tuckers could muster among them to convince Aunt Milly that we had not been fighting, and even after she seemed to be convinced, she growled a bit when Shorty appeared all dressed and spruce, with his hair plastered down tight and his arm linked in Harvie's. She had the fidelity of some old dog for its master and it would take some time to erase from her mind and heart that terrible scene of Mr. Harbie being beaten and blooded and pitched into the water.

We led her back to her seat in the sand and brought her dinner to her.

We would not let her help cook or serve, but treated her like a real chaperone and waited on her right royally. She rolled her eyes a bit when to Shorty was relegated the task of taking her a cup of coffee. He pretended to be very much frightened and trembled violently as he handed her the br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup.

”Aunt Milly, how did you learn how to throw so well? You hit me with that potato just as though you belonged to a baseball nine.”

”I been a-practicin' all my life a-throwin' at rats,” she growled.

This brought down the house.

CHAPTER XIII

TANGLEFOOT

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