That functionary is well
known for his crude method of executing business; to ask a favour of
him would be like asking the sea to give up its dead. He is cold,
methodical, unmoveable; very much opposed to anything having the
appearance of an innovation upon his square rules of business.
M'Carstrow finds him in just the mood to interpose all the frigid
peculiarities of his incomprehensible nature. The colonel has known
him by reputation; he knows him now through a different medium.
After listening to M'Carstrow's request, and comporting himself with
all imaginable dignity, he runs his fingers through his hair, looks
at M'Carstrow vacantly, and well nigh rouses his temper. M'Carstrow
feels, as southern gentlemen are wont to feel, that his position and
title are enough to ensure courtesy and a quick response. The man of
writs and summonses feels quite sure that the pomp of his office is
sufficient to offset all other distinctions.
"Whar' d'ye say the gal was,--in my gaol?" the sheriff inquires, with
solemn earnestness, and drawling his words measuredly, as if the
whole affair was quite within his line of business. The sheriff has
the opportunity of making a nice little thing of it; the object to
be released will serve the profits of the profession. "Gittin' that
gal out yander ain't an easy thing now, 'taint! It'll cost ye 'bout
twenty dollars, sartin," he adds, turning over the leaves of his big
book, and running his finger down a scale of names.
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