Whirled round and grabbed at the empty air,
And clear to the foot of them stairs, ker-smack,
He bumped on the bulge of his humped old back;
And his wife yelled down, as mad’s a bug:
“Ding-rat your pelt, did you break my jug?’
Micajah Dunham was pulling “six-weeks” beans in his lower lot the next afternoon when he saw two men coming across the field toward him. With hand at his forehead he soon recognised them—Squire Look’s sturdy figure, and behind him the equally well-known waddling bulk of “Sawed-off” Purday, Palermo’s local deputy sheriff.
“Hen’, just hand ’Caje that paper,” directed the Squire after the greetings. “Then, if you’ve a mind to, go back to the team and wait while I have a word here.”
The farmer’s face paled as he took the paper, first dragging his earth-soiled hands across his trousers’ legs. He realised it must be a legal document, and it frightened him.
“It isn’t often that the lawyer himself comes along with his paper,” commented Squire Phin, “but I felt that this might need a little elucidation—and something else, perhaps.” The farmer blinked, holding the writing aslant. The sheet crackled and fluttered in his trembling hands.
“I ain’t got my specs, Squire,” he said with agitation. “But I don’t owe no money nor nothin’ to be sued for. What is it?”