thrifty shop-keeper arose, gazed contentedly around him, and stood with folded arms.
"Dat kind o' talk don't tree no coon. Fudl, he gwine to stay too, but dat don't make it his'n. You can't go lopin' down de big road an' take up wid de fust catfish stan' you comes acrost. Dat ain't de law."
Now Said in his village had heard somewhat of this mysterious and malignant thing they called "the law." He had witnessed many wailings concerning it, corvee, conscription, and the cutting off of hands. The mere suggestion of law disquieted him.
"It is mine," Said spoke with wavering stubbornness.
Zack pulled out an impressive looking document, abstracted from Mr. Bim's waste basket, "How come it your'n? Whar's yo' paper for it? Maybe I got Fudl's name writ on dis paper."
The Dongalawi's legs crumpled up and tangled together like snapped fiddle strings. He sank to his knee and caught the hem of Zack's coat, "But the Illustrious Effendi promised—Excellency."
"I ain't gwine to give nothin' to Fudl. I'm gwine to put yo' name on dis paper—pervided you 'tends to yo' job."
The conquered Said reached out both his claws, but Zack deliberately stuck the paper into his pocket and ordered, "Come along wid me."
