"Things is terrible there at home,—paw is all wore-out with the trouble, and all Blant's jobs he has to tend to, like cooking and minding the babe of nights, and he couldn't get along at all if Uncle Billy's boys didn't come down and chop wood, and feed the animals, and such. I ought to be home now tending to things for him; and I'll have to give up learning and go when crap-time comes. Blant never ought to have give hisself up,—he ought to have thought about his family, and not lost his head that way. They'll sure send him to Frankfort on his trial,—I heared some talk about it last week."
Indeed, it is a pitiable situation, and will be far more so if Blant is sent to the penitentiary. The thought hangs a new weight of dread upon me,—of course then Nucky will have to leave school and go home and take up Blant's burdens. My own selfish grief in the thought of losing Nucky ought not to protrude itself in the face of greater troubles,—but I have already lost so much,—must everything I set my affection upon be taken?
Saturday.
Yesterday Philip astonished me by asking for the wash-job. If there is anything on the place he has often expressed contempt for, it is the duties of the unfortunate wash-boy, who must rise before day on Saturdays to build fires and fill kettles, and then for nine long hours toil wearily, chopping wood, carrying water, and otherwise "slaving" for the wash-girls, until, when playtime comes, he is generally too tired to play; not to mention that every day in the week he must tend the ironing-stove, and, deepest indignity of all, take a hand at the ironing. No job is so consistently avoided by every boy on the place; while the carpenter- and shop-work, which Philip does exclusively, is considered the most aristocratic and desirable of all. I gladly transferred him, however; and this morning the explanation appeared, when Dilsey Warrick tripped over with the other nine wash-girls, having been shifted from the weaving to the washing department.
Sunday Night.
After church to-day, I myself heard some of the solid men of the community talking about Blant's case; and their words confirmed Nucky's statement of last week. I gather that public sentiment is pretty well crystallized into the feeling that a couple of years in Frankfort is about the least the reluctant law can do when forced to extremities. Sympathy for Blant is strong; but the determination is equally strong that his many lawless acts cannot be longer overlooked, and that the majesty of the law must be vindicated. Nucky, pale of face, hurried to the jail after hearing the talk, and Taulbee said to me as we came home,
"It looks now like Blant is bound for Frankfort; but I'll lay my hat he don't never get there,—not if Trojan can help it."
"He'll have to go if he is sent," I replied; "now he has put himself in the hands of the law, he must take his medicine, whatever it is."
"Who,—Blant? Him swallow anything he don't want to? I reckon not. There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip."