"Who dat boss gwine to de penitenshur?" he stopped to enquire.
"Abram Laflin," came the answer.
"Don't you heer dat!" exclaimed Joshua, "Fredum is sho gin out now. Ellic dun und gon und got hissef drounded, und on de tip eend of dat de boss is dun und got hissef in de penitenshur. Land sakes alive! Niggers got to walk perpendickkler now," and with that the old negro dodged into the tippling shop.
"Say boss?" Joshua said to the rum-seller, "Fill me a tickler rite full er rum; don't put narry drap of whiskey in hit, kase ef yu dus my creddick is dun und gon fur ebber. Now what dus I have to pay?" he asked as he put the bottle into his haversack.
"Seventy-five cents," sharply answered the salesman.
"My King!" ejaculated Joshua, "Den what is I gwine to do about dem gallusses?"
"Come old negro," the clerk crustily replied, "get out and let that man come to the counter."
As Joshua was moving suspiciously out of the dram shop he glanced savagely at the man and said to himself, "Dis heer low down white trash is a gwine to be de ruinashun ob dis kentry yit, agougging de werry eyeballs out ob yer hed, und yu are standin rite dare urseein dem do hit. I wishes dat dar jedge wud git holt ob dese speretual shops und squashes dem lak he dun dat ditement agin ole marser."
In the small hours of the night Joshua stumbled against the door of his cabin crying like a lunatic.