“When everybody believes me guilty?”
“Don’t be so precious aggrawatin’, my lad,” cried Jem, plaintively. “Don’t I keep on a-telling you that I don’t believe you guilty. Why, I’d just as soon believe that I stole our sugar and sold bundles of tobacco-leaves to the marine store shops.”
Don shook his head.
“Well, of all the aggrawatin’ chaps I ever did see, you’re ’bout the worst, Mas’ Don. Don’t I tell you it’ll be all right?”
“No, Jem, it will not be all right. I shall have to go before the magistrates.”
“Well, what of that?”
“What of that?” cried Don, passionately. “Why, that scoundrel Mike will keep to his story.”
“Let him!” cried Jem, contemptuously. “Why, who’d ever believe him i’ preference to you?”
“My uncle—my mother—my cousin.”
“Not they, my boy. They don’t believe it. They only think they do. They’re sore just now, while it’s all fresh. To-morrow by this time they will be a-hanging o’ themselves round about your neck, and a-askin’ of your pardon, and kissin’ of you.”