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The Squire raised his voice, and let it fall like an auctioneer's hammer on the name. "G. W. Pugg is Mr. Pugg in the room?" At that imperative question, the gray-skirted, bushy-headed, grog-bruising hunter of a father in the corner, rose and said, "Call 'im George Washintun, then I guess he'll cum!"
Next to the gamblers was a pallet, occupied indeed by two bodies, but only one of which was living the other sufferer had been recently relieved from his agony. "He is dead he is dead!" said the wretched survivor. "Then do you die too, and be d d," answered one of the players, "and then there will be a pair of you, as Pugg says."
"George WASHINGTON PUGG; will you come and testify?" said the Squire with an emphasis on all the names, but rising and fairly hammering the last; when a greedy-eyed, brockle-faced, over-grown blade of seventeen opened up like a flax-brake, and loped forward over chairs and benches, responding in a houndish flat-and-treble voice, "I reckon I'll doo't! O yis, I reckon I will, Square Fabens."
Seneca Waldron and Crispus Flaxman were called; but their evidence was challenged and ruled out for non-age. G. W. Pugg was called, and no one answered. G. W. Pugg, repeated the magistrate, slighting the initials and laying most emphasis on the name. No one answered; but two persons in the corner, a father and son, exchanged significant glances and looked very acute and wise.
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