“Yer onher,” sed he, “I've given of my substanse to the poor; I've luved my nay-bor as myself; I've surved for ten years as Warden of a fashunubble church, and tride to the best of my knowlege and beleef to do rite.”
“Yer onher,” sed the prosercutin turney, wot I reckernized as the ex-religio-jurnalistick edittur of a defunckted alliance noosepaper, “May I ast the prisner a questshun?”
“You may,” sed Judge Satan, for it was his infurnissimo himself.
“Prisner at the bar,” sed the turney, “Did you pay your subskripshun to the Buster 'fore you checked your baggage thru to Hay dies?”
“No, sir,” sed the prisner, “I did not. I never thot it was perticklar, cos editturs aint like other mortels, enyway, and I never knowd it was a sin to beet em if you culd.”
“Yes, sir, yer onher,” said the prosercutin 'turney, “he confesses his gilt, and I find, by lookin over the reckord, he ows the Buster offis for 8 years' subskripshun besides a hull string of free advertisin wot the edittur giv him outer goodness of hart. Not only that, but I notis in the day book that jest wun week 'fore he departed he ordered his paper stopped, cos he was opposed to surportin', by his munny, a Dem-mercratick candydate for Guvner. You see, yer onher, there is nothing left for you but to pass sentense on the prisner.”
“Prisner at the bar,” sed the Judge, “this yere cort sentenses you to hard laber shuvlin' flames at a tempyrature of 6,000 degrees, for 10,000 yares, durin' all wich time you will sing 'I want to be a angel, And with the editturs stand!' Shurruf, conduct the prisner to furnace number 561, next to Gittoes.”
Soon as he'd gone, a cullered gentleman was brot in, and in ansur to there quest-shuns as to his morral standing he sed:
“Jedge I knoes I'se a hard cityzen, and I've done gone and sinned purty nigh all the sins wot I know'd of. Steelin' fouls, hookin' nickles outer the contrybushun box, 'propriatin' millyuns wot I'd no legal rite and titel to, gettin' converted at camp meetin' so as I culd mash wun of. them purty sistern, and other offenses too numer-ickel to menshun, but if this yere cort'U giv this nigger a sho, I'll try to leed a dif-frent life.”
“Prisner, did you ever tak a noose-paper?” sed the Prosercutin' Turney.