My sakes! I'm a-pantin' like a tuckered hound--a-thinkin' he was a cussed milishy mobocrat come to spoil his household!" The younger man was now able to speak, albeit his breathing was still heavy and the marks of the struggle plain upon him.
"What does it mean, Brother Wright--all this?
Where are the Saints we left here--why is the city deserted--and why this--this ?" He shook back the thick, brown hair that fell to his shoulders, tenderly rubbed the livid fingerprints at his throat, and readjusted the collar of his blue flannel shirt.
"Thought you was a milishy man, I tell you, from the careless way you hollered--one of Brockman's devils come back a-snoopin', and I didn't crave trouble, but when I saw the Lord appeared to reely want me to cope with the powers of darkness, why, I jest gritted into you for the consolation of Israel.

You'd 'a' got your come-uppance, too, if you'd 'a' been a mobber.

You was nigh a-ceasin' to breathe, Joel Rae.

In another minute I wouldn't 'a' give the ashes of a rye-straw for your part in the tree of life!" "Yes, yes, man, but go back a little.

Where are our people, the sick, the old, and the poor, that we had to leave till now?
Tell me, quick." The older man sprang up, the late struggle driven from his mind, his face scowling.