“That is very fine talk but you don’t mean it,” declared the court. “Nothing short of the chain-gang will cure you. I will sentence you—”
“Hold on, boss, ain’t you gwine to let Marse Henry say a word fur de ole nigger?”
“He’s already said that you were all right except about fighting negroes. The court must protect all classes of citizens. I will give you nine months.”
“Amen!” whispered Parson Small.
’Squire Brown dropped his head to keep from meeting Jim’s tearful eyes, as the boy marched out to the jail, handcuffed to two other culprits.
“That was about as I anticipated,” said Harry to his father, as they left the courthouse. “Jim’s reputation hurt him with the judge. If you had been in Judge Shaler’s place you would have done the same thing.”
“Yes, I think you are right, but I don’t like to see the boy go that way. It would cost close to seventy dollars to get him out; he owes me something now; I have not the money to spare, and cannot afford to pay him more than ten dollars a month if I have him.
“He will have to go this time.”
This was the sorrowful admission of ’Squire Brown.