“I cant do it, Mrs. Gaskins,” says he; “the law must be inforced. The law is no respecter of persons.”
Says I, pleadin like: “You see, I am a old woman, and not stout. Jobe is away, and I am here alone. If the law is no respecter of persons, why should it come here and put me out of a home that we have paid over $3,800 toward, jist to please the man that we have paid the money to?”
He shook his head.
“Where are you a goin to put me?” says I.
“I am goin to put you out,” says he; “out in the big road yonder, off these premises.”
Says I: “Mistur, please dont be so cruel as that. It would kill me to sleep out there all nite. Please let me stay a little longer—jist a little longer.”
“No use a talkin,” says he. “Ile have to do as the law says. Its not me a puttin you out, Mrs. Gaskins—its not me that is cruel. It is the law, the law, that is doin it.”
“Come on, men,” says he, speakin to the other fellers.
So they come right into the house, the house I had loved so well, walkin over the floor I have scrubbed on my hands and knees thousands of times, and begin to tear up my things and carry them out in the big road.
I jist felt so queer I could hardly breathe.