“You don’ mean to say none o’ dem low-life scoun’els—”
“I don’t know who did it. He took particular pains to keep out of sight.”
“’Lias!” the old woman cried, turning on her son, “wha’ ’d you let Brothah Dokesbury go off by hisse’f fu’? Whyn’t you go ’long an’ tek keer o’ him?”
The old lady stopped even in the midst of her tirade, as her eyes took in the expression on her son’s face.
“I’ll kill some o’ dem damn—”
“’Lias!”
“’Scuse me, Mistah Dokesbury, but I feel lak I’ll bus’ ef I don’t ’spress myse’f. It makes me so mad. Don’t you go out o’ hyeah no mo’ ’dout me. I’ll go ’long an’ I’ll brek somebody’s haid wif a stone.”
“’Lias! how you talkin’ fo’ de ministah?”
“Well, dat’s whut I’ll do, ’cause I kin out-th’ow any of ’em an’ I know dey hidin’-places.”
“I’ll be glad to accept your protection,” said Dokesbury.