“Here.” (Suddenly overtaken with lameness himself, and limping up to the desk.)
“Gentlemen, are you ready to proceed?”
“Yes, your honor,” squeaked little “Blackberry,” who was counsel for the plaintiff, and popping up from his chair.
“I aint, your honor,” interrupts Abe.
“Why not pray?” asks the justice, looking over his spectacles at him with a magisterial frown.
“I haint got no witness.”
“That’s your own fault, not mine. Constable, call the jury.”
“I’ll make affidavy that it weren’t no lachees on my part, your honor. I hope Mr. Coger wont take no advantage nor nothen.”
“You needn’t set there and lie, Abe Kettle,” says Nirum. “You haint got no witness anyhow, and you knows it.”
“Well, heave ahead!” says Abe, taking his seat at the desk. “All I want is to criss-cross your witnesses, to show that this here suit is a spite suit. All spite and malice, your honor, and nothen else.”