'Twould just
make a man what had stretchy conscience think there was somethin'
crooked somewhere. 'Well, boys,' says I, feeling a little soft about
the stomach, 'seeing how it's yer Boss what don't feed ye, I'll be
kind o' good, and give ye a dose of the mixture in an honourable
way.' Then I loads t'other barrel, the feller's eyes flashin'
streaks of blue lightnin' all the time, lookin' at how I rams it
down, chunk! 'Now, boys,' says I, when the plugs
shot is all ready, 'there's system 'bout this ere thing a'
mine--t'aint killin' ye I wants,--don't care a copper about that
(there an't no music in that), but must make it bring the finances
out a' yer master's pocket. That's the place where he keeps all his
morals. Now, run twenty paces and I'll gin ye a fair chance! The
nigger understands me, ye see, and moves off, as if he expected a
thunderbolt at his heel, lookin' back and whining like a puppy
what's lost his mother. Just when he gets to an honourable
distance,--say twenty paces, according to fighting rule,--I draws up,
takes aim, and plumps the plugs into him. The way the critter jumps
reminds me of a circus rider vaultin' and turnin' sumersets. You'd
think he was inginrubber 'lectrified. A'ter all, I finds these
playin' doses don't do; they don't settle things on the square. So I
tries a little stronger mixture, which ends in killin' three o'
Mack's niggers right up smooth. But the best on't is that Mack finds
he han't no proof, goes right into it and kills three o' my prime
fat niggers: that makes us bad friends on every score.
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