Just before sunset they saw from afar the capitol dome, the mausoleum of
Stricklin, who built many state houses, constructing in each one a tomb
for himself. Years had passed since Jasper, a battle-smoked and bleeding
soldier, had trod up to that lofty pile of rock to receive his discharge
from the ranks; and desolate, with no drum and no fife to march back to
his wretched home. To him the scene was heart-heavy with memories, but
to the boys it was the first glimpse of that great and mysterious life
lying far beyond their native hills.
"I reckon the man that lives in thar could go to a sale up whar we live
an' buy every wagin an' team on the place," said Laz, pointing toward
the fading state-house, and Mose replied:
"Reckon h--h--h--he could t--t--t--talk all day without a h--h--hitch."
"Whar do we sleep to-night, with some of the neighbors?" Laz inquired,
and Foster laughed.
"You sleep," said he, with an old joke, "in a house that will keep the
dogs from coming in and biting you."
"You mean the jail?"
"Yes, that's what I mean.
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