"Hears the infernal cur-dog's yelp, yelp, yelp, down in the swamp; then I creeps through the jungle so sly, lays low till the fellers cum up, all jumpin'-pig ahead, then dogs, niggers follerin', puffin' and blowin', eyes poppin' out, 'most out o' breath, just as if they tasted the sparerib afore they'd got the critter. "Well, ye see, I know'd all the ins and outs of the law,--keeps mighty shy about all the judicial quibbles on't,--never takes nobody with me whose swearin' would stand muster in a court of law. All right on that score (Romescos exults in his law proficiency). I makes sure o' the dogs fust, ollers keepin' the double-barrel on the right eye for the best nigger in the lot. It would make the longest-faced deacon in the district laugh to see the fire flash out o' the nigger's big black eyes, when he sees the cur drop, knowin' how he'll get the next plugs souced into him. It's only natural, cos it would frighten a feller what warn't used to it just to see what a thunder-cloud of agitation the nigger screws his black face into. And then he starts to run, and puts it like streaks o' cannon-balls chased by express lightnin'. "'Stand still, ye thievin' varmint! hold up,--bring to a mooring: take the mixture according to Gunter!' I shouts. The way the nigger pulls up, begs, pleads, and says things what'll touch a feller's tender feelins, aint no small kind of an institution. '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. But he got a