“You’re a lie, aint you? I say, aint you a lie? Markham, lend me your pist’l.”
Markham was just drunk enough to do it, and handed a Sharpe’s four-shooter, but the negro had fled from the room, while Frank and Ellerton took the pistol away from me. Seeing how much intoxicated I was, they told me the poor negro had no idea of laughing at me, and that I had hurt his feelings very much, and ought to beg his pardon.
“Bring him in and I’ll do it;” as I spoke he came in again with some cigars, and I called him to me. He had not lost all of his recent fright, however, and hesitated about coming any nearer.
“Why don’t you com mere, Jim. I’ll throw a chair at you ‘f you don’t come,” I said, making an effort to rise. At length he drew near enough for me to touch him, when I threw one arm around his neck and said, with half sobs:
“I beg your pard’n, Jim; I won’t hurt you. Are you ‘fraid of me? Umph? I love you, Jim, b’cause you’re all right, aint you?”
The others pulled me from him, and told him to get on the other side of the table.
“No; I want Jim to com mere. I know what I want; you all don’t know what I want.”
“No, no, Smith, let Jim alone. Here, take a cigar,” said one or two, offering a case.
“No; I want Jim. Jim’s all right,” I said, looking sleepily defiant.
“Wait till after supper,” said Ellerton, “then you can see him. It’s your time to give us a song now.”