“Well, Somers, I ain’t up to print, say nothin’ of writin’. If they make any muss about it, I kin tell ’em it was all a mistake—don’t yer see, Somers? May be I mought be deef too, Somers.”
“Perhaps they will read it to you.”
“Then I’m deef, sartin.”
“Very likely they will give you what you want, if you ask them civilly.”
“No, they won’t, Somers. They hate us wuss ’n pizen; but I hate them wuss ’n they hate me.”
“What have they done?”
“They hain’t done nothin’, and that’s what I hate ’em fur. The Yanks won’t tech ’em, and we can’t tech ’em, Somers. It stands to reason, Somers, sech folks ought to be hated.”
Somers decided not to discuss this question, and he had dropped a few paces behind his companion to avoid his slang, when Skinley exhibited a disposition to be sociable, and insisted that the road was wide enough for them to ride abreast. The young officer did not want to quarrel with the ruffian, and he complied with his request.
“Thar’s a pooty gal over to Callicot’s, Somers,” added he, with a coarse grin. “P’rhaps you’ll think more of that than yer do of the whiskey.”
“Is she a Union girl?” asked Somers—more because he felt compelled to speak than because he felt any interest in the new subject.