More distressing news from Trigger, when the mail-boy stopped to report to-day. "Same old story all over ag'in," he says, "the babe crying and puning constant, and plumb off its feed, and favoring a little picked bird. Minervy Saxby doubts it's a-holding out till the trial." I heard later he had taken the news on to Blant, through the bars of the jail window.
Saturday Evening.
Philip is in a seventh heaven. Every day in the week now he basks in Dilsey's presence two or three hours, cheerfully doing the menial tasks of keeping up fires and ironing; and on Saturdays he spends almost the entire day in her society, hanging out clothes, turning wringers, doing tremendous deeds on the wood-pile with his ax, running nimbly down and up the rocky sides of the well when the chain breaks and the bucket falls in, as it is fond of doing, and, between labors, giving hazardous performances on the limb of a peach-tree. The teasings of the boys and girls seem powerless to dampen his ardor,—indeed, I suspect that their "Howdy, Mr. Warrick," "Good evening, Mrs. Floyd," fall as music on his ears.
Sunday Night.
When I went with Nucky to the jail this afternoon, I found that the rumors abroad for two weeks had reached it, indeed, they were being freely discussed by the prisoners, the keeper and Blant himself,—I was thankful to see that he was able to put his mind on the subject.
"Yes," he said sadly, "it looks like I'll have to give up the hope I have cherished, and try to get my consent to face life again; which God knows I couldn't if it wasn't brung home to me that I got a family depending on me, and a pore little infant looking to me for life itself. Nothing else could ever give me courage to breast the waves of sorrow that swallows me up. But I reckon, after all, I have got a higher call to live than to die; and that, when they acquit me on my trial, constant hard labor for my family will in time take off some of the edge of my sorrow."
"But the probabilities is they won't acquit you, Blant," said the keeper impatiently; "I been trying to ding that into your head nigh a week. I told you plain what the talk was about sending you to Frankfort a couple of year'".
"I can't believe anything so unreasonable," replied Blant. "Now, a life for a life is just plain sense and common justice,—if they was to kill me for the lives I have took, especially Rich's, I would perfectly agree they was doing right. But what good or justice it would do anybody to shut me up in Frankfort when I'm so bad needed at home, I fail to see. Here I am, with a crippled paw, a living to make for a large family, and the babe maw left in my hands to tend and raise,—you might say with my hands running over full,—now is there any sense in cooping me up where I can't do none of it? I allow not—it's plumb ridiculous,—no jury would be guilty of it; and if they was to, I haint willing to take it."
"I allow you'll have to, if it comes," said the keeper, sternly. "You'd ought to have thought of that sooner, and looked before you leaped. You certainly done the nearsightedest job ever I heared of when you give yourself up to the sheriff,—honest, I wouldn't have believed it of you, Blant,—but of course your mind was clean unhinged by misery, and you wa'n't accountable. And I'm sorry for you if you get sent up. But now you've throwed yourself in the arms of the law, you got to lay there. Whatever you do, take warning, and don't try no escapin' tricks here on me, like you done on the sheriff last spring. Because, whatever happens, and however good I like you—which I do, the best in the world—I want you to ricollect that law is law, and I'm its sworn gyuardeen, and obligated by my oath, and aiming to do my whole duty. And also, that I haint no poor shakes at gun-practice myself, though I may not be as sure a shot as you."
At the words, "as sure a shot as you," a spasm of anguish passed over Blant's face. "I wish to God I never had been no kind of a shot at all before I took the life of him I loved!" he exclaimed, wildly. "Don't never tell me of it, or call it to my recollection that I had the surest aim of any man in five counties; for the days of my gun-pride are over; I have shot my last shoot!"