He looked very fractious, very, and he snapped out:
“He has got to take that posture or be scalped.”
“If Samuel would let me pick out postures for him, I would have him stand up so far above Lo—in mercy, and justice, and patience, and truth,—that he couldn’t reach up to his scalp; and standin’ up on that height, he might deal less in glass beads, and more in common honesty,” says I mildly.
But again Ulysses looked me full in the eye of my speck, and says he firmly:
“Darn Lo, anyway;” and at that same minute Josiah whispered to me: “Lo haint no nearer starvin’ than I am this minute.”
He did look almost famishin’; and so tellin’ Ulysses to give my love to Julia, and my best respects to Mr. Dents’es folks, and Fred and his wife, and be sure and take good care of Nelly’s baby, I curchied to him nobly and bid him good-bye.
So we wended our way along, the eye of my speck takin’ in the heavenly beauty of the scene, when all of a sudden Josiah spoke up, and says he: “What a pity it is that they are a goin’ to licence the Sentinal.”
I stopped stun still, leggo of his arm, and turned right round and faced my pardner. “Licence the Sentinal, Josiah Allen!” says I.
“Yes,” says he, “they be, and they are tryin’ hard not to have no Sunday neither.”
“A tryin’ to have the Sentinal not keep Sunday?”