“Can’t yer think uv su’thin’ else?” asked Quattles.
“Only this,” replied Vance: “How shall I manage Hyde?”
“Wall, ef the Kunnle sh’d hold up his milk, you jest say ter him these eer words: ‘Dorothy Rusk must be provided for. What kn I do fur her?’ The widder Rusk is his sister, yer see, an’ that’s the one soft spot the Kunnle’s got.”
Vance carefully recorded the mysterious words; then asked, “Do you remember Peek, the runaway slave Hyde had in charge?”
“In coorse I do,” said Quattles, twisting with pain from his wound. “Should you ever see that nigger, Mr. Vance, tell him that Amos Slink, St. Joseph Street, kn tell him su’thing’ ’bout his wife. Amos wunst tell’d me how he ’coyed her down from Montreal. ’T was through that same lawyer chap that kum it over Peek.”
“Can Amos identify you as the Quattles of the Pontiac?”
“In coorse he can, for he knowed all ’bout me at the time.”
“And now, my friend, I wish to have this testimony of yours sworn to and witnessed; but I’m overtasking your strength.”
“Do it, Mr. Vance. Help me ter lose my strength, ef yer think I kn do any good tellin’ the truth.”
“Can you get along without this opiate two hours longer?”