“Zebulon Stump!”
Before the voice of the summoning officer has ceased to reverberate among the branches of the live-oak, a tall stalwart specimen of humanity is seen making his way through the throng—whom all recognise as Zeb Stump, the most noted hunter of the Settlement.
Taking three or four strides forward, the backwoodsman comes to a stand upon the spot set apart for the witnesses.
The sacred volume is presented to him in due form; which, after repeating the well-known words of the “affidavit,” Zeb is directed to kiss.
He performs this operation with a smack sufficiently sonorous to be heard to the extreme outside circle of the assemblage.
Despite the solemnity of the scene, there is an audible tittering, instantly checked by the judge; a little, perhaps, by Zeb himself, whose glance, cast inquiringly around, seems to search for some one, that may be seen with a sneer upon his face.
The character of the man is too well known, for any one to suppose he might make merry at his expense; and before his searching glance the crowd resumes, or affects to resume, its composure.
After a few preliminary questions, Zeb is invited to give his version of the strange circumstances, which, have been keeping the Settlement in a state of unwonted agitation.
The spectators prick up their ears, and stand in expectant silence. There is a general impression that Zeb holds the key to the whole mystery.
“Wal, Mister Judge!” says he, looking straight in the face of that cigar-smoking functionary; “I’ve no objection to tell what I know ’beout the bizness; but ef it be all the same to yurself, an the Jewry hyur, I’d preefar that the young fellur shed gie his varsion fust. I kud then foller wi’ mine, the which mout sartify and confirm him.”