up and went warbling and warbling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe what he was saying _himself_; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and says: “I've thought of something.  Is there anybody here that helped to lay out my br--helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for burying?” “Yes,” says somebody, “me and Ab Turner done it.  We're both here.” Then the old man turns towards the king, and says: “Perhaps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?” Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd a squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make most _anybody_ sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice, because how was _he_ going to know what was tattooed on the man?  He whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little forwards and gazing at him.  Says I to myself, _now_ he'll throw up the sponge--there ain't no more use.  Well, did he?  A body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't.  I reckon he thought he'd keep the thing up till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the duke could break loose and get away.  Anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says: “Mf!  It's a _very_ tough question, _ain't_ it!  _yes_, sir, I k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast.  It's jest a small, thin, blue arrow--that's what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't see it.  _now_ what do you say--hey?” Well, I never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out cheek. The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king _this_ time, and says: “There--you've heard what he said!  Was there any such mark on Peter Wilks' breast?” Both of them spoke up and says: “We didn't see no such mark.” “Good!” says the old gentleman. “No