“Do consider, Mr. Ricketts!” joined in Ruth. “He’s really not guilty.”
“Who says he ain’t?” demanded the deputy sheriff, shooting in the question suddenly.
“He says so,” said Ruth, firmly, “and I never knew Curly Smith to tell a story.”
Mr. Ricketts was undoubtedly in a very embarrassing position. He was the soul of gallantry—according to his standards. To please the ladies was almost the highest law of his nature.
Behind him, Jimson, his companion, Tom, and the negroes had gathered in a compact crowd to listen. Mr. Ricketts, hat in hand, and perspiring now profusely, did not know what to do. He said, feebly:
“My soul and body, ladies! I dunno what t’ say. I’d please yo’ if I could. But I’m instructed t’ bring this yere boy in, an’ I got t’ do it. A broken laig ain’t no killin’ matter. I’ve had one myself—ya-as, ma’am! We kin take him in this yere little launch that b’longs t’ Kunnel Peters. He’ll be ’tended to fust-class.”
“Not in your old jail at Pegburg!” cried Nettie. “You know better, Mr. Ricketts,” and she was quite severe.
“I know you, Miss Nettie,” Mr. Ricketts said, with humility, “You’re Mrs. Parsons’ niece. You say the wo’d an’ I’ll take the boy right to my own house.”
Ruth had been watching one of the negroes who had stood on the outskirts of the group. He was a big, burly, dull-looking fellow—the very man whom Curly had risked his life to save from the river the night before.
This man stepped softly away from the crowd. He disappeared toward the front of the porch. By craning her neck a little Ruth could see around the corner of the door-jamb and follow the movements of this negro with her eyes.