“And Mr. Slosson, Uncle Bob—did you smack him like you smacked Dave Blount that day when he tried to steal me?” asked Hannibal, whose childish sense of justice demanded reparation for the wrongs they had suffered.
Mr. Yancy extended a big right hand, the knuckle of which was skinned and bruised.
“He were the meanest man I ever felt obliged fo' to hit with my fist, Nevvy; it appeared like he had teeth all over his face.”
“Sho—where's his hide, Uncle Bob?” cried the little Cavendishes in an excited chorus. “Sho—did you forget that?” They themselves had forgotten the unique enterprise to which Mr. Yancy was committed, but the allusion to Slosson had revived their memory of it.
“Well, he begged so piteous to be allowed fo' to keep his hide, I hadn't the heart to strip it off,” explained Mr. Yancy pleasantly. “And the winter's comin' onat this moment I can feel a chill in the air—don't you-all reckon he's goin' to need it fo' to keep the cold out,' Sho', you mustn't be bloody-minded!”
“What was it about Mr. Slosson's hide, Uncle Bob?” demanded Hannibal. “What was you a-goin' to do to that?”
“Why, Nevvy, after he beat me up and throwed me in the river, I was some peevish fo' a spell in my feelings fo' him,” said Yancy, in a tone of gentle regret. He glanced at his bruised hand. “But I'm right pleased to be able to say that I've got over all them oncharitable thoughts of mine.”
“And you seen the judge, Uncle Bob?” questioned Hannibal.
“Yes, I've seen the judge. We was together fo' part of a day. Me and him gets on fine.”
“Where is he now, Uncle Bob?”