"Nice business!
Tryin' blow a man's head off!"
Penrod was unable to speak, but Sam managed to summon the
tremulous semblance of a voice. "Where--where did it hit you?" he
gasped.
"Nemmine anything 'bout where it HIT me," the young coloured man
returned, dusting his breast and knees as he rose. "I want to
know what kine o' white boys you think you is--man can't walk
'long street 'thout you blowin' his head off!" He entered the
stable and, with an indignation surely justified, took the pistol
from the limp, cold hand of Penrod. "Whose gun you playin' with?
Where you git 'at gun?"
"It's ours," quavered Sam. "It belongs to us."
"Then you' pa ought to be 'rested," said the young coloured man.
"Lettin' boys play with gun!" He examined the revolver with an
interest in which there began to appear symptoms of a pleasurable
appreciation. "My goo'ness! Gun like'iss blow a team o' steers
thew a brick house! LOOK at 'at gun!" With his right hand he
twirled it in a manner most dexterous and surprising; then
suddenly he became severe. "You white boy, listen me!" he said.
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