“Shut up, bud,” Spoade said. “Let him do it his way. He’s going to anyhow.”
“Age,” the squire said. I told him. He wrote that, his mouth moving as he wrote. “Occupation.” I told him. “Harvard student, hey?” he said. He looked up at me, bowing his neck a little to see over the spectacles. His eyes were clear and cold, like a goat’s. “What are you up to, coming out here kidnapping children?”
“They’re crazy, Squire,” Shreve said. “Whoever says this boy’s kidnapping—”
Julio moved violently. “Crazy?” he said. “Dont I catcha heem, eh? Dont I see weetha my own eyes—”
“You’re a liar,” Shreve said. “You never—”
“Order, order,” Anse said, raising his voice.
“You fellers shet up,” the squire said. “If they dont stay quiet, turn ’em out, Anse.” They got quiet. The squire looked at Shreve, then at Spoade, then at Gerald. “You know this young man?” he said to Spoade.
“Yes, your honour,” Spoade said. “He’s just a country boy in school up there. He dont mean any harm. I think the marshall’ll find it’s a mistake. His father’s a congregational minister.”
“H’m,” the squire said. “What was you doing, exactly?” I told him, he watching me with his cold, pale eyes. “How about it, Anse?”
“Might have been,” Anse said. “Them durn furriners.”
“I American,” Julio said. “I gotta da pape’.”
“Where’s the gal?”
“He sent her home,” Anse said.