It sounded
so to me.
"Samuel Palmour, how do you vote?" that chair-
man would say.
Samuel Palmour, or whoever it was, would hist
himself to his feet, and he would say something
like this:
"Death."
He wouldn't say it joyous. He wouldn't say it
mad. He would be pale when he said it, mebby--
and mebby trembling. But he would say it like it
was a duty he had to do, that couldn't be got out
of. That there trial had lasted so long they wasn't
hot blood left in nobody jest then--only cold blood,
and determination and duty and principle.
"Buck Hightower," says the chairman, "how
do you vote?"
"Death," says Buck; "death for the man. But
say, can't we jest LICK the kid and turn him
loose?"
And so it went, up one side the room and down
the other. Grimes had showed 'em all their duty.
Not but what they had intended to do it before
Grimes spoke. But he had put it in such a way they
seen it was something with even MORE principle to
it than they had thought it was before.
"Billy Harden," says the chairman, "how do you
vote?" Billy was the last of the bunch. And most
had voted fur death. Billy, he opened his mouth
and he squared himself away to orate some. But
jest as he done so, the door opened and Old Daddy
Withers stepped in. He had been gone so long I
had plumb forgot him.
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