“Aminadab’s his name,” repeated the Colonel.  “His own mother ought to know what he was baptized, and here is a letter from her which the postmaster and I opened this morning.  Look!—­’My dear Aminadab.’”

“Don’t believe it, Saccharissa,” said I, faintly, “It is only one of those tender nicknames, relics of childhood, which the maternal parent alone remembers.”

“Silence, culprit!” exclaimed Judge Pyke.  “And now, Colonel, read the letter upon which our sentence is principally based,—­that traitorous document which you and our patriotic postmaster arrested.”

The ruffian, with a triumphant glance at me, took from his pocket a letter from Derby Deblore.  He cleared his throat by a plenteous expectoration, and then proceeded to read as follows:—­

“Dear Bratley,—­Nigger ran like a hound.  Marshall and the rest only saw his heels.  I’m going on to Toronto to see how he does there.  Keep your eyes peeled, when you come through Kentucky.  There’s more of the same stock there, only waiting for somebody to say, ‘Leg it!’ and they’ll go like mad.”

Here the audience interrupted,—­“Hang him! hang him! tar and feathers a’n’t half bad enough for the dam’ nigger-thief!”

I began to comprehend Deblore’s innocent reference to his favorite horse Nigger; and a successful race he had made with the well-known racer Marshall—­not Rynders—­was construed by my jury into a knowledge on my part of the operations of the “Underground Railroad.”  What could have been more absurd?  I endeavored to protest.  I endeavored to show them, on general and personal grounds, how utterly devoted I was to the “Peculiar Institution.”

“Billy Sangaree,” said Judge Pyke, “do you and Major Licklickin stand by the low-lived Abolitionist, and if he says another word, blow out his Black Republican heart.”

They did so.  I was silent.  Saccharissa gave me a glance expressive of continued devotion.  So long as I kept her and her hundred thousand dollars, ($100,000,) I little cared for the assaults of these noisy and ill-bred persons.

“Continue, Colonel,” said Judge Pyke, severely.

Plickaman resumed the reading of my friend’s letter.

“Well, Bratley,” Deblore went on, “I hope you’ll be able to stand Bayou La Farouche till you’re married.  I couldn’t do it.  I roar over your letters.  But I swear I respect your powers of humbug.  I suppose, if you didn’t let out to me, you never could lie so to your dear Saccharissa.  Do you know I think you are a little too severe in calling her a mean, spiteful, slipshod, vulgar, dumpy little flirt?”

“Read that again!” shrieked Saccharissa.

“You are beginning to find out your Aminadab!” says Plickaman.

I moved my lips to deny my name; but the pistol of Billy Sangaree was at my right temple, the pistol of Major Licklickin at my left.  I was silent, and bore the scornful looks of my persecutors with patience and dignity.