“I won’t put it on,” says he—and he added in a loud mad tone—“he won’t git no bails put onto him by me, not a darned bail.”
“Well,” says I, “if you haint no pity by you, you can probable stop swearin’ if you set out to. They are relations on your side Josiah Allen.”
“Throw the Widder in my face again will you!” says he, “if she was fool enough to marry him, she may take care of him for all of me, and if she wants any bails put onto him, she may put ’em on herself.”
Says I lookin’ my pardner calmly in the eye. “Ort from ort leaves how many Josiah Allen?”
“Ort,” says he, and snapped out, “what of it? What do you go a prancin’ off into Rithmatic for, such a time as this?”
Says I mildly, for principle held my temper by the reins, a leadin’ me along in the harness first-rate, “When you reckon up a row of orts and git ’em to amount to anything, or git anything from ’em to carry, then you can set the bride to doin’ sunthin’ and expect to have it done;” says I, “won’t Sam Snyder succor him?”
“No he won’t; he says he won’t and there haint a Jonesvillian that will; you won’t catch ’em at it.”
“Well,” says I firmly, with a mean that must have looked considerable like a certain persons at Smithfield when he was bein’ set fire to; “if you nor nobody else won’t go and help put a bail onto Solomon Cypher, I shall.”
And then Josiah hollered up and asked me if I was a dumb fool, and twitted me how hauty and overbearin’ Solomon had been to wimmen, how he had looked down on me and acted.
But says I calmly, “Josiah Allen, you have lived with me month after month, and year after year, and you don’t seem to realize the size and heft of the principles I am a carryin’ round with me, no more than if you never see me a performin’ with ’em on a tower. Rememberance of injuries, ridicule, nor Josiah can’t put up no bars accrost the path of Right high enough to stop Samantha. She is determined and firm; she will be merciful and heap coals of fire on the head of the guilty Cypher, for the sake of duty, and that weepin’ ort.”