Finally, we gave up in despair. The big negro collapsed with a wail. The
first sign of weakness I ever detected in him.
"Now it's shore either ninety-nine yeahs in de pen foh me, or ten yeahs
for th' sheriff's son foh lawyah fees ... an' the footprints in de
flowah bed ... of the man what done de rape was two sizes biggah dan
mine."
* * * * *
The next day the jailer, of course, missed the keys. Panic-stricken, the
mulatto girl was afraid to slip them back to their accustomed nail, for
fear she'd be seen at it; or was it out of vindictiveness against the
jailer that she had now actually hidden them somewhere (for, finding
them of no use, we had handed them back to her)!
That same afternoon the sheriff, with his son and the little,
shrivelled, stuttering, half-deaf jailer, came in at the door of the big
room. It was easy to see what they wanted. They wanted the keys and they
were going to make the girl confess where they were ... as she was the
only other person, beside the prison authorities, that was in the way to
come at them.
"Martha, we want them keys! Show us where they is, like a good girl!"
"'Deed, Ah don' know where dey is a-tall, Marse Sheriff!"
"Come on, gal, you was the only one downstairs exceptin' Jacklin heah!"
pointing to the jailer.
The jailer nodded his head asseveratingly.
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