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Updated: May 10, 2025
You arise and give the five minutes' intelligent explanation; bah! There is not a situation in life which does not need five minutes' intelligent explanation; but it does not get it." It could now be seen that the old man Fullbil was simply aflame with a destructive reply, and even Bobbs paused under the spell of this anticipation of a gigantic answering.
Peter left his obese mother and hurried to the corner, Dawson Bobbs, the constable, had handcuffs on Tump's wrists, and stood with his prisoner amid a crowd of arguing negroes. Bobbs was a big, fleshy, red-faced man, with chilly blue eyes and a little straight slit of a mouth in his wide face. He was laughing and chewing a sliver of toothpick.
"Indeed and he does, sir," answered the innkeeper, pleased at my quick appreciation of this matter. "And then there is goings on, I warrant me. Mr. Bobbs and the other gentlemen will be in spirits." "I never doubt you," said I. "But is it possible for a private gentleman of no wit to gain admittance to this distinguished company?" "Doth require a little managing, sir," said he, full of meaning.
"May be that, Parson, but hit's easier to come up before the J.P. and pay off than to fight it through the circuit court." Siner pushed his way through the crowd. "How much do you want, Mr. Bobbs?" he asked briefly. The constable looked with reminiscent eyes at the tall, well-tailored negro.
"Maybe I's mistooken," he said solemnly. "Tump did start over heah wid a gun, but Mister Dawson Bobbs done tuk him up fuh ca'yin' concealed squidjulums; so Tump's done los' dat freedom uv motion in de pu'suit uv happiness gua'anteed us niggers an' white folks by the Constitution uv de Newnighted States uv America."
He was a young man with a face both Roman and feminine; with that type of profile which is possessed by most of the popular actors in the reign of His Majesty of to-day. He had luxuriant hair, and, stung by the taunts of Fullbil, he constantly brushed it nervously from his brow while his sensitive mouth quivered with held-in retorts. He was Bobbs, the great dramatist.
A belated merchant stopped him by clapping both hands on his shoulders and shaking some composure into him. "What is it? What's so funny? Damn it! I miss ever'thing!" "I-i-it's that f-fool Tum-Tump Pack. Bobbs's arrested him!" The inquirer was astounded. "How the hell can he arrest him when he hit town this minute?" "Wh-why, Bobbs had an old warrant for crap-shoot three years old before the war.
And amid his victory old Fullbil sat with a vain smile on his cracked lips. My excellent and adjacent friend turned to me in a burst of enthusiasm. "And did you ever hear a thing so well turned? Ha, ha! 'My good friend Bobbs, quoth he, 'I see your nose gradually is turning red. Ha, ha, ha! By my King, I have seldom heard a wittier answer."
All three negroes recognized the first glimpse of the hood and top, for there are only three or four cars in Hooker's Bend, and these are as well known as the faces of their owners. This particular motor belonged to Constable Bobbs, and the next moment the trio saw the ponderous body of the officer at the wheel, and by his side a woman.
"Bedad!" said I, somewhat bewildered, but resolved to appreciate the noted master of wit, "it stamped the drama down into the ground. Sure, never another play will be delivered in England after that tremendous overthrow." "Aye," he rejoined, still shuddering with mirth, "I fail to see how the dramatists can survive it. It was like the wit of a new Shakespeare. It subsided Bobbs to nothing.
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