Laws
are always founded in justice--that's logical, you see,--and I always
maintained it long 'afore I come south, long 'afore I knowed a thing
about 'nigger law.' The point, thus far, you see, gentlemen, I've
settled. Now then!" Mr. Scranton rests his elbow on the table, makes
many legal gesticulations with his finger; he, however, disclaims
all and every connection with the legal body, inasmuch as its
members have sunk very much in the scale of character, and will
require a deal of purifying ere he can call them brothers; but he
knows a thing or two of constitutional law, and thus proceeds:
"'Tain't a whit of matter about the woman, barring the dockerment's
all right. You only want to prove that Marston bought her, that's
all! As for the young scraps, why--supposing they are his-that won't
make a bit of difference; they are property for all that, subject to
legal restraints. Your claim will be valid against it. You may have
to play nicely over some intricate legal points. But, remember,
nigger law is wonderfully elastic; it requires superhuman wisdom to
unravel its social and political intricacies, and when I view it
through the horoscope of an indefinite future it makes my very head
ache. You may, however, let your claim revert to another, and
traverse the case until such time as you can procure reliable proof
to convict." Mr. Scranton asserts this as the force of his legal and
constitutional acumen. He addresses himself to a mercantile-looking
gentleman who sits at the opposite side of the table, attentively
listening.
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