“I don't care a cuss about that nigger, but what's the use of building a jail if a body ain't goin' to use it?”
“Well, there's some sense in that,” agreed the sheriff.
“There's a whole heap of sense in it!”
“I suggest”—the speaker was a young lawyer from the next county—“I suggest that a committee be appointed to wait on the nigger at the steamboat landing and acquaint him with the fact that with his assistance we wish completely to furnish the jail.”
“I protest—” cried the judge. “I protest—” he repeated vigorously. “Pride of race forbids that I should be a party to the degradation of the best of civilization! Is your jail to be christened to its high office by a nigger? Is this to be the law's apotheosis? No, sir! No nigger is worthy the honor of being the first prisoner here!” This was a new and striking idea. The crowd regarded the judge admiringly. Certainly here was a man of refined feeling.
“That's just the way I feel about it,” said the sheriff. “If I'd athought there was any call for him I wouldn't have let him go fishing, I'd have kept him about.”
“Oh, let the nigger fish—he has powerful luck. What's he usin', Sheriff; worms or minnies?”
“Worms,” said the sheriff shortly.
Presently the crowd drifted away in the direction of the tavern. Hannibal meantime had gone down to the river. He haunted its banks as though he expected to see his Uncle Bob appear any moment. The judge and Mahaffy had mingled with the others in the hope of free drinks, but in this hope there lurked the germ of a bitter disappointment. There was plenty of drinking, but they were not invited to join in this pleasing rite, and after a period of great mental anguish Mahaffy parted with the last stray coin in the pocket of his respectable black trousers, and while his flask was being filled the judge indulged in certain winsome gallantries with the fat landlady.
“La, Judge Price, how you do run on!” she said with a coquettish toss of her curls.