“Got to be—no other way,” said Mr. Eldridge. “Now, the next time, there won't be anybody like you to stand out, and the judge 'll know of this scrape, and he'll just sock it to him.”
Eli turned uneasily in his chair.
“And then it won't be understood in your place, and folks 'll turn against you every way, and, what's worse, let you alone.”
“I can stand it,” said Eli, angrily. “Let 'em do as they like. They can't kill me.”
“They can kill your wife and break down your children,” said Mr. Eldridge. “Women and children can't stand it. Now, there's that man they were speaking of; he lived down my way. He sued a poor, shiftless fellow that had come from Pennsylvania to his daughter's funeral, and had him arrested and taken off, crying, just before the funeral begun—after they 'd even set the flowers on the coffin; and nobody'd speak to him after that—they just let him alone; and after a while his wife took sick of it—she was a nice, kindly woman—and she had sort of hysterics, and finally he moved off West. And 't was n't long before the woman died. Now, you can't undertake to do different from everybody else.”
“Well,” said Eli, “I know I wish it was done with.”
Mr. Eldridge stretched his arms and yawned. Then he began to walk up and down, and hum, out of tune. Then he stopped at Captain Thomas's chair.
“Suppose we try a ballot,” he said. “He seems to give a little.”
In a moment the foreman rapped.
“It is time we were taking another ballot, gentlemen,” he said.