“I ha’n’t done nothing,” said Harris.
“No, none of you ha’n’t done nothing,” was the response, while as many as could, laid hold upon him, and speedily, though not tenderly, conducted him to the “dead-ring.”
“Let me stand up,” said he, attempting to rise from the dust where they had seated him. “A man can’t see outside at all,—can’t see among the white folks at all.”
“You sit down there, you great big nigger!” said little Gaston, sticking him with a gun; and Mann Harris sat down.
The next moment, with a great shout and halloa, Lieutenant Watta was brought, and compelled to sit down close beside Harris.
“Good! good! boys,” shouted the great General. “But can’t you get that Captain? I want that Captain, now.”
“What sort of a looking man is he?”
“Oh, he’s a saucy-looking fellow, and has side whiskers and a moustache.”
“I’ll write it down,” said one producing a pencil. Failing to find paper in any of his pockets, he turned towards the moonlight, and wrote it upon his shirt cuffs.
“Halloa Tom, let me have your pencil while I write it upon my shirt-front,” said another. “The starch makes it as good as paper. We’ll catch him before long now.”