Unexpected stage fright overwhelmed Mr. Bloomfield.
“I've took the oath of office, tubby sure—but I ain't never performed no marriage ceremony—I don't even remember how it starts,” he confessed.
“Think it up as you go 'long,” advised Sergeant Bagby.
“Whutever you say is bindin' on all parties concerned—I know that much law.” It was the first time since the runaways arrived that Mr. Ezell had broken silence, but his words had potency and pith.
“But there has got to be witnesses—two witnesses,” parried Mr. Bloomfield, still filled with the buck-ague qualms of the amateur.
“Whut's the matter with me and him fur witnesses?” cried Sergeant Bagby, pointing toward Mr. Ezell. He wrestled a thin gold band off over a stubborn fingerjoint. “Here's even a weddin' ring!”
The boy, who had been peering down the silent street, with a tremulous hand cupped over his anxious eyes, gave a little gasp of despair and plucked at the girl's sleeve. She turned—and saw then what he had already seen.
“Oh, it's too late! It's too late!” she quavered, cowering down. “There he comes yonder!”
“'Tain't no sech of a thing!” snapped Sergeant Bagby, actively in command of the situation. “You two young ones come right up here on this porch and git behind me and take hands. Indiana, perceed with your ceremony! Georgia and Kintucky, stand guard!” With big spread-eagle gestures he shepherded the elopers into the shelter of his own wide bulk.
A man with a red, passionate face and mean, squinty eyes, who ran along the nearer sidewalk, looking this way and that, saw indistinctly through the vines the pair he sought, and, clearing the low fence at a bound, he came tearing across the grassplot, his heels tearing deep gouges in the turf. His voice gurgled hoarsely in his throat as he tried to utter—all at once—commands and protests, threats and curses.