“Jonathan Boggs, from Maine,” was the quiet reply.
“And your business with me?”
“Now that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along, but you wouldn’t listen. I sell clocks for a livelihood. I’ve rented a room in the block-house yonder, and by Jupiter! it’s e’na’most filled up with my clocks. Reckon you’ll buy a clock, won’t you?”
“Fool!” McCabe stamped his foot with vexation, and again turned on his heel to leave his persecutor. But again that opposing hand was laid on his shoulder, and he was once more detained against his will.
“Ain’t you gwine to buy a clock?” asked the Yankee. “I tell you, mister, they’re the nicest thing under the sun and jest presactly what you want. I swow, by gravy, it’s the most complete invention in existence. Why, the man as made them clocks died. He was tew confounded smart tew live—”
“Stop!” said the settler, imperatively. “I don’t wish to buy, and you will oblige me by discontinuing the subject.”
“You don’t tell me! Wal, I don’t wish to impose on the patience of an indulgent audience. I’ve sold so many clocks since I come, that I ain’t spilin’ for your patronage nohow, so we’ll drap the topic. I say, mister, that was a bad thing ’bout your feller-citizen, Doctor Trafford, bein’ killed in his own house, wa’n’t it?”
“It was indeed,” was the brief answer.
“It was, sure’s shootin’,” continued the Yankee; “but the wust part o’ the hull sarcumstance was the awful mistake of arrestin’ the doctor’s own nephew, and hangin’ him for the murder.”
“Mistake!” echoed McCabe, looking sharply at the speaker. “Why, sir, there was no mistake about it. Russell Trafford was found guilty before he was punished. He did do the deed.”