And I waved my sword of Jestice agin (mentally) and sez—
“Wall, I am bound that you shan’t have her, and you’ll see,” sez I, “who’ll carry the day!”
And then he sez, “What right have you to interfere? What relation are you to her?”
And sez I, a-liftin’ up my head in a very noble way—“The same relation that the Samaritan wuz to the man by the wayside. She’s my relation on the heart’s side, the Pity and Sympathy’s side. Closter ties than the false, shaky ones that bound her to a life of slavery and danger with you—bound her to you, who promised to protect her, and then half-murdered her. And you’ll find out so!” sez I, a-lookin’ as bold as brass, but in my heart I quaked considerable, not knowin’ but I wuz a-goin’ agin the hull statute and constitution and by-laws of the U. S. of America.
But I spoze my mean skairt him. It had sech determination and courage into it, and he sez—
“I will go and call my brother-in-law. He is a rich and respectable man and very religious. I will bring him to talk with you.”
“Wall, do so!” sez I, bold as a lioness on the outside. “I’d love to set my eyes onto that creeter, jest out of curosity, jest as I would look at a menagerie of wild beasts and man-eaters.”
So he went back into the tarvern and brung him.
He wuz a mean-lookin’ creeter in his face, and he wuz short in statter, and his figger looked sort o’ sneakin’ under the weight of guilt he wuz a-carryin’ round under the cloak of religion.
And his little black eyes looked guilty, and his hull face, under some kinder red hair, looked withered and hardened, as if his doin’ for years what he knew wuz wicked had hardened his face into a cruel meanness. He looked mean as mean could be.