Several
gentlemen interpose between Fetter; but before he can reach Grabguy,
who is no small man in physical strength--which he has developed by
fighting his way "through many a crowd" on election days-that
municipal dignitary is ejected, sans ceremonie, into the street.
"Justice to me! My honest rights, for which I laboured when he gave
me no bread, would have saved him his compunction of conscience: I
wanted nothing more," says Nicholas, raising the side of his coarse
jacket, and wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Silence there!" demands an official, pointing his tipstaff, and
punching him on the shoulder.
Grabguy goes to his home, considering and reconsidering his own
course. His heart repeats the admonition, "Thou art the wrong-doer,
Grabguy!" It haunts his very soul; it lays bare the sources from
whence the slave's troubles flow; places the seal of aggression on
the state. It is a question with him, whether the state, through its
laws, or Messrs. Fetter and Felsh, through the justice meted out at
their court, play the baser part.
A crowd of anxious persons have gathered about the door, making the
very air resound with their shouts of derision. Hans Von
Vickeinsteighner, his fat good-natured face shining like a pumpkin
on a puncheon, and his red cap dangling above the motley faces of
the crowd, moves glibly about, and says they are having a right
jolly good time at the law business within.
Fetter, again taking his seat, apologises to the jury, to the
persons present, and to his learned brother, Felsh.
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