Oh! the look that Josiah Allen gin him. I see the voyolence of
that look, that rested first on the Deacon, and then on that,
boot.

And agin I says, "Josiah Allen." And agin the thought of his own
feerful acts, and my warnin's came over him, and again
mortification seemed to envelop him like a mantilly, the tabs
goin' down and coverin' his lims -- and agin he didn't throw that
boot. Agin Deacon Balch escaped oninjured, saved by my voice, and
Josiah's inward conscience, inside of him.

Wall, suffice it to say, that after a long parley, Josiah Allen
wuz a settin' on the high seat with the driver, a holdin' his
boots in his hand, for truly no power on earth could have placed
them boots on Josiah Allen's feet in the condition they then wuz.

And so he rode on howewards, occasionally a lookin' down on the
Deacon with looks that I hope the recordin' angel didn't
photograph, so dire, and so revengeful, and jealous, and -- and
everything, they wuz. And ever, after ketchin' the look in my
eye, the look in his'n would change to a heart-rendin' one of
remorse, and sorrow, and shame for what he had done. And the
Deacon, wantin' to be dretful perlite to him, would ask him
questions, and I could see the side of Josiah's face, all glarin'
like a hyena at the sound of his voice, and then he would turn
round and ossume a perlite genteel look as he answered him, and
then he glare at me in a mad way every time I spoke to the Deacon,
and then his mad look would change, even to one of shame and
meakinness. And he in his stockin' feet, and a pertendin' that he