"To-be-sure," he puffed,
"I'm--so--plagey--fat--can't hurry--worth cent--wind's no good--have
to take--to smokin' agin--sure."
Dick explained the situation in a few words; "I wouldn't have called
you sir, if young Goodrich were not in it. But--but--you see--I don't
know what to do," he finished, lamely.
"To-be-sure," said Uncle Bobbie, "I know. To-be-sure. Sometimes a bad
feller like him gets tangled up with good people in such a way you
jist got t'er let 'em alone; tares an' wheat you know; tares and wheat.
To-be-sure Christianity aint 'rithmetic, and you can't save souls like
you'd do problems in long division, ner count results like you'd figger
interest. What'd ye say?--Suppose you skip down to the corner and fetch
him up here."
Dick glanced at the negro. "Never you mind him," said the old gentleman,
with a fierce scowl. "Your uncle'll shoot the blamed head off him if
he so much as bats an eye; he knows it too." And he trained the long
gun on the trembling black.
Dick slipped out of the back door and soon returned holding Frank
firmly by the collar. As they entered, Uncle Bobbie said to the negro,
"Now's yer chance, Bill; git out quick 'fore we change our minds." And
the astonished darkey bolted.
"Now Frank," said the old gentleman kindly, when Dick had placed his
prisoner in a chair, "tell us all about it." And young Goodrich, too
frightened almost to speak above a whisper, told the whole miserable
story.
"Too bad; too bad," muttered Uncle Bobbie, when Frank had finished.
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