"An' I don't see but now's the 'pinted time to stop it," said Brother Rockafellow.
And Brother Longhorn said:
"Ef we make a example of this one, it'll clear the country of the scoundrils an' give us peace an' security!"
"But mebbe the lor hed better take its course," suggested a timid brother.
"Thet's it Brother Calfer; thet's it. Wot is the course of the lor? Why it's to involve the county hed over ears in debts fur us farmers to pay, an' let the hoss thief go free! Thet's wot the lor is!" and this explanation of what the law consisted of met with many approving expressions of "Thet's so!" "You've hit it!" "Lor's a swindle!" "Ropes good cheap lor!" and other endorsements.
And the little crowd at the cross roads in caucus assembled appointed each one present a committee of one to ride around the neighborhood that night and invite the neighbors to meet before "sun up" on the public square in Lickskillet, and "devise measures for the protection of the public peace and property, more especially hosses."
On the cold floor of his prison the Evangelist lay folded in the arms of the merciful angel of rest. The blood had dried upon his face, and its deep crimson contrasted weirdly with the ghastly palor of his countenance even in the faint star light that crept through the one narrow aperture in the building. His long, thin fingers were clasped as though in prayer, and ever and anon his lips would move and a smile break upon them—hideously out of conformity with his blood-stained face. But blood and wounds and bruises and rags and miseries and wretchedness, were all forgotten by the sleeper. He was with his mother. He was with her, in that realm entered only through the portals of sleep. Again he was a boy. Again with dog-eared books flung over his shoulder, he sauntered down the green New England lane;—rich in the glories of wild-roses and gaudy thistle-blossoms; odor-ladened by groups of cedar bushes and the mellow fragrance of old orchards, tuned to harmony with the chatter of blue jays and the operatic notes of bobolinks. Here a pebble to kick, there a mullen head to switch from its stalk; now a puff-ball to crush with his heel, a rabbit to chase in the brush, and an old post to lean against with hands in pockets and books flung at his feet, while he looked and whistled and whistled and looked, just in sheer glee and relief that the day's work in the weather-stained schoolhouse was over. Then a shout and a run down the low hill that ended by the cottage gate, where a thin care-worn woman, with fond eyes, wrapped him in her arms and pressed her lips lovingly to his—joyed with him in his joys and sorrowed with him in his sorrows. No wonder that the lips of him who lay on the hard floor of the Lickskillet lockup murmured the name of "Mother." The purest, truest, holiest being that the heart of man ever enshrined for its idol!
But what is this? There is the noise of many voices without—a rush of many feet. The door of his prison resounds to a heavy blow. The sharp point of an iron bar is thrust between the jamb and the lock. It shivers and groans with the pressure. Groans as if in protest against the violence about to be committed. Then, with a grinding screech, it flies open and the Evangelist springs to his feet. Springs to his feet to be confronted by a judge from whose decision there is no appeal. A judge whose court has flooded this fair land with scenes of blood and murder. A judge whose jury is the brute passions of mankind. The abettor of spite, vengeance, ignorance and bigotry. A judge who knows no law save the law of might. A judge who held his court on the steps of the guillotine, in the mountain haunts of the Covenanters, and in the streets of old Venice. A judge, who when banished in loathing from the old world, brought his dread court to the new, and treads the civilization, the Christianity and the progress of the nineteenth century beneath his heel in this fair land. A judge who daily calls upon us by his acts, cited in the public press, to rise and hurl him from his bench, and declare ourselves at last on a level with the enlightened nations of the earth. JUDGE LYNCH!
As Horton arose to his feet he encountered this hideous parody upon civilization in the shape of two hundred maddened men. Maddened with a thirst for human life.
"Come out hyar!" yelled the mob.