"Come! get up here! Prize money ahead! Fine fun for a week.
Prize money ahead! wake up, ye jolly sleepers, loyal citizens,
independent voters-wake up, I say. Here's fun and frolic, plenty of
whiskey, and two hundred dollars reward for every mother's son of ye
what wants to hunt a nigger; and he's a preachin nigger at that!
Come; whose in for the frolic, ye hard-faced democracy that love to
vote for your country's good and a good cause?" After exerting
himself for some time, they begin to scramble up like so many
bewildered spectres of blackness, troubled to get light through the
means of their blurred faculties.
"Who's dragging the life out o' me?" exclaims one, straining his
mottled eyes, extending his wearied limbs, gasping as if for breath;
then staggering to the counter. Finally, after much struggling,
staggering, expressing consternation, obscene jeering, blasphemous
oaths and filthy slang, they stand upright, and huddle around the
notice. The picture presented by their ragged garments, their
woebegone faces, and their drenched faculties, would, indeed, be
difficult to transfer to canvas.
"Now, stare! stare! with all yer fire-stained eyes, ye clan of
motley vagrants-ye sovereign citizens of a sovereign state. Two
hundred dollars! aye, two hundred dollars for ye. Make plenty o'
work for yer dogs; knowin brutes they are. And ye'll get whiskey
enough to last the whole district more nor a year," says our worthy
Jones, standing before them, and pointing his finger at the notice.
Pages:
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493