"Nemmine 'bout dat," Reub' protested, grinning all over—"nemmine 'bout dat. I des gwine fetch it in when I needs a thunder-bolt! Rasheoshinatiom! Dat's a bomb-shell fur de prosecutiom! But I can't git it off now; I'm too cool. Wait tell I'm standin' in de pulpit on tip-toes, wid de sweat a-po'in' down de spine o' my back, an' fin' myse'f des one argimint short! Den look out fur de locomotive!
"Won't yer," he added, after a pause—"won't yer, please, sir, spell dat word out fur me slow tell I writes it down 'fo' I forgits it?"
"'WON'T YER, PLEASE, SIR, SPELL DAT WORD OUT FUR ME SLOW?'"
Reaching deep into his trousers pocket, he brought forth a folded scrap of tobacco-stained paper and a bit of lead-pencil.
Notwithstanding his fondness for the old man, there was a twinkle in Marshall's eye as he began to spell for him, letter by letter, the coveted word of power.
"R," he began, glancing over the writer's shoulder.
"R," repeated Reub', laboriously writing.
"A," continued Marshall.
"R-a," repeated Reub'.