"
"You're too hard on 'em, Tucker," drawled Mr. Jackson. "We mustn't
expect too much from pore savages who live in a country so hot that
they can't progress like we do." Here Mr. Jackson took off his hat and
wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow with a red bandanna
handkerchief. "Don't expect too much from cannibals that have their
brains half roasted by the tropical sun."
"That's a fact!" said some one in the throng.
"Yes," said Jackson, crossing his legs on a level well above his head,
"them pore critters need our civilization, that's what they need," and
he dexterously squirted a mouthful of tobacco juice on the white-hot
stove, where it sizzled and gradually evaporated. "We must make real
men of 'em. We must give 'em our strength and vigor and intelligence.
They're a dirty lot of lazy beggars, that's the long and short of it,
and we must turn 'em into gentlemen like us!"
A general murmur of approval followed this outburst.
"I hear," said Sam, anxious to get some definite information as to the
warriors of the town, "I hear that several Slowburghers are going to
the war."
"Yes," said Tucker, while Jackson after his effort settled down into a
semi-comatose state, "six of our boys are a-going. There's Davy Black,
he drives the fastest horse in these parts, and Tom Slade. Where is
Tom? He's generally here. They'll miss him here at the hotel, and Jim
Thomson who used to be bartender over at Bloodgood's, and the two
Thatchers--they're cousins--that makes five.
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