“Don’t be fools—a logo-fogie is a sort of a man that don’t think as I do—wicked critters all such sort of people are,” said Lynx. “My lad, I’m pretty clear you’re a logo-fogie—you talk as if your respect for me and other venerable institutions was tantamount to very little. You’re a leveller I see, and wouldn’t mind knocking me down flat as a pancake, if so be you could run away and get out of this scrape—you’re a ’grarium, and would cut across the lot like a streak of lightning if you had a chance.” “Mr. Lynx,” said the lady of the house from the head of the stairs—she had heard from one of the affrighted maids that a “logo-fogie” had been “captivated,” and that it could talk “just like a human”—“Mr. Lynx, don’t have anything to say to him. Take him out, and hand him over to the police. I’ll see that you are recompensed for your trouble.” “Come out, then—you’re a bad chap—you wouldn’t mind voting against our side at the next election.” “We don’t want elections, I tell you,” said Fydget, coolly, as he walked up stairs—“I’ve a plan for doing without elections, and police-officers, and laws—every man mind his own business, and support me while I oversee him. I can fix it.” Having now arrived at the street, Mr. Lynx held him by the collar, and looked about for a representative of justice to relieve him of his prize. “Though I feel as if I was your pa, yet you must be tried for snoozling in a barrel. Besides, you’ve no respect for functionaries, and you sort of want to cut a piece out of the common veal by your logo-fogieism in wishing to ’bolish laws, and policers, and watchmen, when my brother’s one, and helps to govern the nation when the President, the Mayor, and the rest of the day-watch has turned in, or are at a tea-party. You’ll get into prison.” “We don’t want prisons.” “Yes we do though—what’s to become of functionaries if there ain’t any prisons?” This was rather a puzzling question. Fyxington paused, and finally said: “Why, I’ve a plan.” “What is it, then—is it logo-fogie?” “Yes, it upsets existing institutions,” roared Fyxington, tripping up Mr. Lynx, and making his escape—the only one of his plans that ever answered the purpose. ----- [14] Neal. XXIII. DOING A SHERIFF. A GEORGIA SKETCH. Many persons in the county of Hall, State of Georgia, recollect a queer old customer who used to visit the county site regularly on “General Muster” days and Court Week. His name was Joseph Johnson, but he was universally known as Uncle Josey. The old man, like many others of that and the present day, loved his dram, and was apt, when he got among “the boys” in town, to take more than he could conveniently carry. His inseparable companion on all such occasions was a black pony, who rejoiced in the name of “General Jackson,” and whose diminutiveness and sagacity were alike remarkable.