"You can't arrest me!" squealed the man.
"But, we done it—didn't we? If yo' don't b'lieve it, jest yo' try to walk out that do'."
"You ain't got no authority! It ain't accordin' to law!"
"This heah ain't exactly a co'te of law—it's a co'te of justice. They's quite a con'sid'ble dif'ence—mostly," answered Waseche, and turning to Connie, he said.
"Jest get out yo' pen, kid, an' set down the figgehs so we c'n get things faih an' squah. One can of gold, nine thousand dollahs. Now, them dawgs—they was eight dawgs at fifty dollahs a head, that's fo' hund'ed dollahs mo'."
"I object!" piped Mr. Squigg, "I'm a lawyer, an' I know——"
"Yo' mout be a lawyeh, Misteh Squigg, but yo' ain't in no shape to 'bject—not none serious. Now, them wages owin' to Pete Mateese, neah's we c'n calc'late, it's fo'teen months at five dollahs a day. Figgeh it up, kid, an' set it down." Connie busied himself over his paper.
"That comes to twenty-one hundred dollars," he announced.