“Vas fur you co up mine shtair? Co town! Ich say, co town!” cried Dan. “Ich been goot freund to ebery man, so you shall not break mine tings. You must go vay, mine vamily pe sick up dar, and you will schare mine cronk poy so he co todt!” and pushing past them, he mounted the upper steps, still persisting in his opposition, and obstructing the way.
“Ich no niggah, no’ publican, no notting dat votes’ cainst you. So you co vay!”
“We won’t hurt you, nor your family, Dan, if we find you all right, but, (the reader must imagine the vilest and most profuse epithets and profanity), Louis Marmor is up there, and we will have him. He’s a scallawag, and a republican, and is helping the niggers, and we must get him. He has got to die as well as the rest.”
“Er nicht dar.”
“You’re a lying Jew dog!”
“Ich schvare youns, Louis Marmor ist not pout mine blace, py de beard of Abraham!”
“You swear to that, do you?” asked the leader.
“Ich schware! Ich schware!”
“B-o-y-s, b-o-y-s,” said old man Baker, staggering from the couch where Mrs. Marmor had shaken him into consciousness, “Boys, oh, come back! come, come, come back! Dan’s a good fellow. I’m quite unwell, quite unwell,” drawled he, “and he has taken care of me and pro—pro—protected me from them —— niggers, and I’ll protect his house and family. Now just come back. Don’t go up there. I’ve been here all night, so far, and hide nor hair o’ Louis Marmor ha’n’t been seen about here. I’ll vouch for this house, and guard it too. So don’t go up.”
“If you say so, Mr. Baker, we’ll come back, but we thought he was thar sho’.”