“Cregan—Cregan,” repeated he a couple of times; then, opening a huge ledger at the letter C, ran his eye down a long column. “Crabtree—Crossley—Croxam—Crebell—Creffet—Cregmore. It is not Cregmore, sir?”
“No, Cregan is the name.”
“Ah, well, there's no Cregan. There was a Cregmore was 'lynched' here, I see by the mark in the book, and we have a small trunk waiting to be claimed, belonging to him.”
“That ain't the fellow as purtended to be winner of the wagon team that was lotteried here a twelvemonth since, is it?” said Kit.
“Yes, but it is, though. He made out he had the ticket all right and straight, when up comes one Colonel Jabus Harper, and showed the real thing; and the chaps took it up hotly, and they lynched Cregmore that evening.”
“Yes, sir, that's a fact,” quoth Kit.
“What was the penalty?” asked I, with a most imposing indifference.
“They hanged him up at Hall's Court yonder. I ain't sure if he be n't hanging there still.”
“And this packet,” said I, for the theme was excessively distasteful, “when does she sail?”
“She starts to-night at twelve,—first cabin, two dollars; steerage, one-twenty.”