‘“Let’s try him here,” says others.
‘“I don’t want to be tried at all,” says Jim. “You all know bloody well as I shot the man. And I knows bloody well as I’ll hev to swing for it. Gi’ me till daylight, and I’ll die like a man.”
‘But we wasn’t going to hang him without a proper trial; and as the trial lasted two hours, it—’
‘Two hours! What did you want two hours for?’
‘There was some as wanted to lynch him, and some as wanted him tried by the reg’lar judges of the Crim’nal Court. One of the best speakers said lynch-law was no law at all, and no innocent man’s life was safe with it. So there was a lot of speakin’, you bet. By the time it was over it was just daylight, and the majority voted as he should die at onc’t. So they took him to the horse-market, and stood him on a table under the big elm. I kep’ by his side, and when he was getting on the table he ast me to lend him my revolver to shoot the foreman of the jury. When I wouldn’t, he ast me to tie the knot so as it wouldn’t slip. “It ain’t no account, Jim,” says I, “to talk like that. You’re bound to die; and ef they didn’t hang yer I’d shoot yer myself.”
‘“Well then,” says he, “gi’ me hold of the rope, and I’ll show you how little I keer for death.” He snatches the cord out o’ my hands, pulls hisself out o’ reach o’ the crowd, and sat cross-legged on the bough. Half a dozen shooters was raised to fetch him down, but he tied a noose in the rope, put it round his neck, slipped it puty tight, and stood up on the bough and made ’em a speech. What he mostly said was as he hated ’em all. He cussed the man he shot, then he cussed the world, then he cussed hisself, and with a terr’ble oath he jumped off the bough, and swung back’ards and for’ards with his neck broke.’
‘An Englishman,’ I reflected aloud.
He nodded. ‘You’re a Britisher, I reckon, ain’t yer?’
‘Yes; why?’
‘Wal, you’ve a puty strong accent.’