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"Ye see," Tom heard Doty confiding to a friend as they sat together outside a window of the store; "ye see, it's this way the D'Willerbys was born 'ristycrats. I dunno as ye'd think it to look at Tom. Thar's a heap to Tom, but he ain't my idee of a 'ristycrat. My idee is thet mebbe he let out from D'lisleville kase he warn't 'ristycratic enough fur 'em.
I ain't no ristycrat, an' I never aimed to be none." The bitterness of his nervous envy would have kept him awake if he had had no other reason for being disturbed, but most of all he was sleepless, because he was desperately ill and in danger he knew nothing of.
"The Dwillerbys is ristycrats," he had said. "They're ristycrats, an' it gives 'em a pull even if they was rebels an' Southerners. A pore man ez works hard an' ain't nothin' but a honest farmer, an' a sound Union man ain't got no show. Ef I'd been a ristycrat I could hev got inflooence ez hed hev pulled wires fur me. But I hain't nothin' but my loyal Union principles.
"Whar's a man stand, sah, if he ain't got no fambly?" he said to Rupert when he came to offer his services to him. "He stan' nowhar, that's war he stan'; I've got to own up to it, Marse Rupert, I'se a 'ristycrat bawn an' bred, an' I 'low to stay one, long's my head's hot.
Fur not bein' a blamed fool, I'll back Tom agin any man in Hamlin." So, when the two young figures were seen sauntering along the road towards the store, there were lookers-on enough to regard them with interest. "Now he's my idee of a 'ristycrat," remarked Mr. Doty, with the manner of a connoisseur.
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