Allan was waiting at a safe distance from the municipal building,
and on seeing his late companion at large he broke into the
wildest rejoicing. He conjured a flow of tears, he fondled Kirk's
hand in his own, he laughed, he sobbed, he sang.
"Praise be to God!" he cried, loudly. "Free mon you, Master
h'Auntony. Glory, glory! My soul was in 'ell, sar. On my knees I
h'implored that fa-ast wretch to release you."
His emotion appeared so genuine, his service had been so great,
that the object of his adoration felt himself choke up. Of all the
people Kirk had met since leaving home, this one had most occasion
to blame him; yet the boy was in perfect transports of delight at
his delivery.
"Don't carry on so," Kirk laughed, awkwardly.
"Oh, boss, I feared they would h'assassinate you again."
Anthony nodded grimly. "They did."
"Oh, oh!" Allan gave himself over to a shrill frenzy and shook his
clenched fists at the jail in a splendidly tragic attitude.
"Wretches! Murderers! 'Ell-ca-ats!"
"Sh-h! Don't make a scene on the street," Mrs. Cortlandt
cautioned. But the Jamaican would not allow the fine effect of his
rage to be lost. He clashed his white teeth, he rolled his eyes
fearfully, and twisted his black features into the wildest
expressions of ferocity, crying:
"H'Allan will best them for that! Let 'im tear h'out their 'earts
by his fingers.
Pages:
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155