kill the first nigger o’ his’n what steals hogs o’ mine.  Wouldn’t a cared a sous, mark ye, but it cum crossways on a feller’s feelins to think how the ’tarnal niggers had no more sense than t’ hunt hogs o’ mine with cur-dogs:  bin hounds, honourable dogs, or respectable dogs what ’ll do to hunt niggers with, wouldn’t a cared a toss about it; but-when-I-hears-a cur-dog yelp, oh! hang me if it don’t set my sensations all on pins, just as somethin’ was crucifyin’ a feller.  I warns and talks, and then pleads like a lawyer what’s got a bad case; but all to no end o’ reformin’ Mack’s morals,—­feller han’t got no sense o’ reform in him.  So I sets my niggers on the scent-it gives ’em some fun-and swears I’ll kill a nigger for every hog he steals.  This I concludes on; and I never backs out when once I fixes a conclusion.

“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