He had stolen the shoat from “the major,” the old Judge’s neighbor, and the major made out a plain, dead-shot case against Tom. In fact, several colored witnesses, led by the centurion’s servant, as aforesaid, and others who differed from Tom religiously, had even waylaid and watched the defendant and seen him take the shoat and carry it to his own cabin.
In his own behalf, Tom said nothing, but sat with a broad and knowing grin on his face, and in his eyes the look of one who, besides having a straight flush in his hand, held a royal one up his sleeve. His lawyer made a feeble effort at defense, and, after submitting a charge or two to the old Judge, who promptly overruled them, the jury was duly charged, retired, and quickly brought in a verdict sentencing Tom to five years in the penitentiary. This made Tom chuckle outright; he almost split his sides in quiet laughter, to the disgust of the court and the astonishment of his own lawyer.
“Stand up, sir!” gruffly thundered the old Judge. Tom arose with his broadest grin and most waggish air.
“Have you anything to say why this sentence should not be passed upon you?” said the Judge, looking sternly at the prisoner.
And then came a rich scene.
“Look erheer, Marse John—he! he! he!—I sutn’y am s’prised at you—he! he! he!—to sot up dar on dat bench, an’ heah dis jury scan’lize my rippertashun lak dat, an’ den you turn roun’ dar, so sassy-lak, in dat cheer, an’ ax me whut I got ter say erbout it—he! he! he! Marse John, whut you mean by doin’ dis way? Jes’ tell me.”
The old Judge turned red with anger.
“Mr. Sheriff,” he thundered, “take this prisoner to jail!”
For a moment Tom was thunderstruck. Could it be possible Marse John really meant it? Was Marse John, the only white friend he had, about to desert him? Quick as a shot he changed his tactics. He had tried his straight flush and had failed. Now for his royal flush.
“Hol’ on, Marse John! hol’ on!” Tom cried, dropping his funny ways and assuming a look of intense earnestness and desperate seriousness. “You dun ax me now, an’ if nuffin’ else gwi’ do you, I hafter tell you whut I do kno’ erbout it. An you’ll ’skuze me, Marse John, ef I happens not to be mealy-mouf ’bout tellin’ it, nurther; fur you makin’ me do it, whuther-no. But I want you, gemmen ob de jury, an’ de shearf dar, an’ dese lawyers heah, an’ all ob you, to b’ar witness to de fac’, dat Marse John don’ fotch all dis row down on hisse’f, befo’ all dese heah folks heah, er-tryin’ to scan’lize my rippertashun. ’Stid ob sayin’ to you all at the berry fus’, befo’ dis row was urver started: ‘Gem’men, dese seedlings am squash, an’ dis ole nigger kin go!’ he sot up dar on dat bench an’ kerry dis thing on, an’ kerry it on, an’ aig you all on, an’ aig you on, er s’archin’ an’ er s’archin’ an’ er axin’ questions, an’ er nosin’ round in my privut bus’ness twell you all, gemmen, jes’ bleegter go out an’ fotch in dis heah vurdick—an’ I don’t blame you all ’tall, gem’men; I don’t think hard of you ’tall. But I sut’n’y was ’sprised at Marse John, when he turn roun’ so sassy-lak in dat cheer, much es ter say: ‘You ole rascal, I’ve got you now! Whut you gotter say erbout it?’