The musket had done double execution. It was too heavily loaded,
and as it went off, 'kicked,' leaving Pomp, about as scared as
the old lady, sprawling on the ground.
Henry Morton was only a few rods off when he heard the explosion.
He at once ran to the old lady's assistance, fancying her hurt.
She shrieked the louder on his approach, imagining that he was a
robber, and had fired at her.
"Go away!" she cried, in affright. "I ain't got any money. I'm a
poor, destitute widder!"
"What do you take me for?" inquired Mr. Morton, somewhat amazed
at this mode of address.
"Ain't you a highwayman?" asked the old lady.
"If you look at me close I think you will be able to answer that
question for yourself."
The old lady cautiously rose to a sitting posture, and,
mechanically adjusting her spectacles, took a good look at the
young man.
"Why, I declare for it, ef it ain't Mr. Morton! I thought 'twas
you that fired at me."
"I hope you are not hurt," said Mr. Morton, finding a difficulty
in preserving his gravity.
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