There was something
terrible about the fat man. He would do anything, absolutely anything,
that came to his hands in the way of legal sewage.
In the midst of these thoughts Peter heard himself saying.
"He--was trying to get Cissie out?"
"Yep."
"He--must have been drunk."
"Oh, yeah."
Mr. Bobbs sat studying the mulatto. As he studied him he said slowly:
"Some of 'em say he was disguised as a woman. Others say he had some
women's clothes along, ready to put on. Now, me and the sheriff knowed
Tump Pack purty well, Peter, and we knowed that nigger never in the
worl' would 'a' thought up sich a plan by hisself."
He sat looking at Peter so interrogatively that the mulatto began, in a
strained, earnest voice, telling the constable precisely what had
happened in regard to the clothes.
Mr. Bobbs sat listening impassively, moving his toothpick up and down
from one side to the other of his small, thin-lipped mouth. At last he
nodded.
"Well, I guess that's about the way of it. I didn't exactly understand
the women's clothes business,--damn' fool disguise,--but we figgered it
might pop into the head of a' edjucated nigger.
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