The voice
was quivering.
"Forty-second Georgia."
For a moment no one spoke, then the same voice asked:
"Who wus your pa, young man?"
"Captain Alfred Stone Westerfelt, under Colonel Mills."
The tall slender figure of the questioner leaned forward breathlessly
and then pushed into the ring. Without a word he stood near
Westerfelt, unpinned the sheet that was round him, and slowly took off
his mask. Then he put a long forefinger into his mouth, pried a wad of
cotton out of each cheek, and threw them on the ground.
It was old Jim Hunter. He cleared his throat, spat twice, wiped his
mouth with his hand, and slowly swept the circle with his eyes.
"I'm the feller he toted out," he said. He cleared his throat again,
and went on:
"Boys, if thar's to be any whippin', ur tarrin' an' featherin' in this
case, I'm agin it tooth an' toe-nail. Cap Westerfelt's boy sha'n't
have a hair o' his head fetched on sech flimsy evi_dence_ as we've had
while I'm alive. You kin think what you please o' me. I've got too
much faith in the Westerfelt stock to believe that a branch of it 'u'd
spy ur sneak.
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