Back Home. Irvin S. Cobb

idea of what the old judge meant by that, but in all his professional life Jeff had never intentionally disagreed in conversation with any white adult—let alone a generous employer. So:

      “Yas, suh,” assented Jeff promptly; “it suttinly is.”

      “But there are times and places,” went on the old judge, “when it is necessary.”

      “Yas, suh,” said Jeff, catching the drift—“lak at a racetrack!”

      “Ah-hah! Quite so,” said Judge Priest, nodding. “And, Jeff, did it ever occur to you that there are better ways of killin' a cat than by chokin' him with butter?”

      “Indeed yas, suh,” said Jeff. “Sometimes you kin do it best with one of these yere ole rusty Confedrit guns!”

      At that precise moment, in a little house on the next street, Sergeant Jimmy Bagby's family, having prevailed upon him to remove his shoes and his cartridge-belt before retiring, were severally engaged in an attempt to dissuade him from a firmly expressed purpose of taking his Springfield musket to bed with him.