Tom’s Last “Furage”
By John Trotwood Moore
Manager’s Note—There has not been a week since we commenced to publish Trotwood’s Monthly that we have not received one or more letters asking us to reproduce “Tom’s Last Furage,” it never having been published in any of Mr. Moore’s books; hence is not in permanent form. In compliance with these requests, we reproduce the story together with a note by the author as it appeared in the Olympian Magazine, in October, 1903. Since that publication, the old Judge after serving a quarter of a century as Judge of the Black Belt Circuit, died in harness, while holding court in Greensboro, Alabama, April 27, 1904. It is said that no judge ever lived in Alabama, who held so generally the love and affection of all the people, white and black, as did Judge Moore. It seems almost incredible to relate that the last time he was re-elected to office, in a general election, in which all parties were represented and all classes of men voted, out of 9,500 votes cast, Judge Moore received all of them but one.
Speaking of his death the Birmingham News said: “In his death, the last link of the old leaders of just after the war, passed away, honored, loved, lamented sorely; not only by his home and district, but by the South. As his pastor said at the funeral, ‘let us pray God’s guidance to fill his place; not only as a jurist, but in the hearts of his people.’”
A few years ago William Jennings Bryan related the story of “Tom’s Last Furage,” in an after dinner speech, and said it expressed more clearly the relationship existing between the old Southern gentleman and his slaves than any story ever written.
Peace to the ashes of so noble a man. The old Judge has passed into the beyond. May he meet and know all whom he loved here, even old Tom.
E. E. SWEETLAND,
Business Manager.
Author’s Note.—This story was first published in the Horse Review of Chicago, December, 1897, but in December, 1899, it was plagiarized by some writer whose name, I am glad to say, I have forgotten, and published in Munsey’s Magazine under the title of “Jim’s Defense.” Mrs. Frances Herrick Fowler, the gifted California writer, called Mr. Frank A. Munsey’s attention to the plagiarism and he very promptly wrote me a letter of apology. Since then, so many public readers and even negro minstrel companies have used the story, giving credit to the plagiarized form, that, at the earnest request of the editor of The Olympian, I am permitting it to appear again in its true form.
A coincident so amusing in the plagiarism occurred that I shall mention it. Much of the story is an incident in the life of my father, Judge John Moore, still Judge of the Black Belt circuit of Alabama, and Tom’s home coming, bringing my father’s saddle, clothes, and sidearms, is the first distinct memory of my life. In plagiarizing it the author in Munsey did little less than to change the names, and in doing so he changed “Miss Mary” to “Miss Emily,” and thus unintentionally gave all the characters their true names.
J. T. M.
Columbia, Tenn., October, 1903.
Tom was a sly, rollicking rascal of a darkey, with a catfish smile and a jaybird eye. He was ever ready for a laugh, a joke, a drunk, or a profession of religion. He would spend his nights as quickly in a bar-room as at a prayer-meeting, and by day he was equally as ready to battle for politics as for religion. But his strong card was his wonderful experience “endurin’ de wah,” whither he went as a body servant to “Marse John,” and his “hairbreadth ’scapes in the imminent deadly breach” would have put a flush of envy in the dusky cheek of Othello himself. But Tom’s fighting was now mostly under his tongue, and, like many who are yet wearing the blue and gray a full generation after all hostilities have ceased and all animosities should long ago have ceased with them, Tom’s war spirit increased as the square of the distance from the crack of the last cannon. From his own statements there could be no doubt that, besides actually participating in every battle of the civil war, the Confederate forces were maintained in the field as long as they were, entirely on account of his own skill and genius as a “furager.”
His other weakness was his habit of disputing upon questions theologic. In this he was peculiarly strong; for, if the discussion waxed hot, and he found he could not convince his hearer with words, he did not hesitate to smite the centurion’s ear, or bite off his nose; and as his war record among the darkies was already Achillean and his fistic abilities unquestionable, there were few who were willing to “’spute de p’int wid ’im.” His great argument was the efficacy of faith over work, and he was so scrupulously religious in his belief that he finally ceased to work altogether, while it required but the spirit of a July sun and a weedy garden to set him to arguing with renewed zeal.
Now, a man is what his beliefs make him; and so the effect of Tom’s belief developed one virtue truly apostolic; he took no thought for the morrow, what he should eat or drink; he carried no scrip in his purse, and, at the beginning of this story, he had not even a change of raiment.
But his staunch friend was “Marse John,” the old Judge, who had long been Judge of a Circuit Court in Alabama—so long “the memory of man runneth not to the contrary,” as the law books have it. The old Judge was a good man and a good Judge—so just that the poorest and the blackest negro, when jerked up before his bar, never failed, equally with the richest and the whitest man in the district, to get that justice to which he was entitled. Nay, more; for in the dignified old gentleman who looked down upon him, pitying him in his environments of ignorance and poverty, and scrutinizing the evidence brought out by the wily lawyers with an alertness that reminded one of an eagle on his eerie watching the sly maneuverings of a congregation of foxes below, the poor wretch often unexpectedly found a strong and stubborn friend. And if the evidence contained but the germ of a doubt in the prisoner’s favor, he promptly got the benefit of it, though often, to get it, the old Judge had to bring to bear in the case the guns of his own learned and analytical mind. As he grew older, he continued to fight for truth with a zeal that seemed to increase with the silver of his locks, and he would acquit innocence though the hangman’s rope was already around her neck.
The old Judge’s influence in the district was wonderful, as is always the influence of truth and strength. Though unpretentious and often silent, not all the preachers of the circuit could have spun the moral woof that was in the warp of his work.
Tom had belonged to the old Judge “befo’ de wah,” and had gone through that fiery ordeal with his master. There is a peculiarly strong bond existing, in the South, between the master and the servant who have thus faced death together. The world cannot show a similar instance where the tie of servitude was forged in the white heat of its destiny.
And so the old Judge now stood up for Tom through thick and thin, and while he openly lamented Tom’s worthlessness, secretly he never failed to come to his assistance when in trouble or supply him and his family with food when hungry. If Tom got in jail, he “saunt for Marse John,” who quickly bailed him out. If, in a religious scrimmage with another darkey, he adopted the warlike methods of Peter, and was fined for assault and battery, he “saunt for Marse John,” who, after listening to his tale, paid his fine before the Mayor; and turned him loose, to the terror and dismay of all the other darkies who differed from him religiously. If he even concluded that marriage was a failure (and the Chancery Court records will show that he did so conclude at least several times during the first thirty years after the war), he “saunt for Marse John,” who, after listening to his tale, must have concluded that the poor woman was entitled to a divorce, whether Tom was or not, as he never failed to go Tom’s security for the costs and the $15 lawyer’s fee—all that is required in the black belt of Alabama to enable two yoked-up darkies to separate, and then proceed to make themselves miserable again in another effort to solve the problem. This last act raised the old Judge among the gods in Tom’s estimation; there was nothing, he thought, Marse John couldn’t do. The man who could thus sunder bonds that God had joined together, possessed, in Tom’s opinion, a few Olympian attributes himself.
Therefore, Tom went on, in spite of the old Judge’s talks, admonitions, and even threats, until one day something happened. The grand jury returned a true bill against Tom for hog stealing. Now, the old Judge would do anything in the world for Tom outside of his own court, but when Tom got into that temple of justice, he found himself among the laws of the Medes and Persians—and he knew it. If that true bill, properly drawn up by the solicitor and signed by the foreman of the grand jury, had indicted the old Judge’s own son, he would have tried him as calmly as Brutus did his boys of old.
But if Tom was in great danger, he never troubled himself about it in the least. Throughout the trial he sat with the air of one who considered he was being highly honored to be tried by “Marse John,” and in the depths of his face was a secret exultation that foreshadowed a complete, a startling, and even a sensational exoneration.
He had stolen the shoat from “the major,” the old Judge’s neighbor, and the major made out a plain, dead-shot case against Tom. In fact, several colored witnesses, led by the centurion’s servant, as aforesaid, and others who differed from Tom religiously, had even waylaid and watched the defendant and seen him take the shoat and carry it to his own cabin.
In his own behalf, Tom said nothing, but sat with a broad and knowing grin on his face, and in his eyes the look of one who, besides having a straight flush in his hand, held a royal one up his sleeve. His lawyer made a feeble effort at defense, and, after submitting a charge or two to the old Judge, who promptly overruled them, the jury was duly charged, retired, and quickly brought in a verdict sentencing Tom to five years in the penitentiary. This made Tom chuckle outright; he almost split his sides in quiet laughter, to the disgust of the court and the astonishment of his own lawyer.
“Stand up, sir!” gruffly thundered the old Judge. Tom arose with his broadest grin and most waggish air.
“Have you anything to say why this sentence should not be passed upon you?” said the Judge, looking sternly at the prisoner.
And then came a rich scene.
“Look erheer, Marse John—he! he! he!—I sutn’y am s’prised at you—he! he! he!—to sot up dar on dat bench, an’ heah dis jury scan’lize my rippertashun lak dat, an’ den you turn roun’ dar, so sassy-lak, in dat cheer, an’ ax me whut I got ter say erbout it—he! he! he! Marse John, whut you mean by doin’ dis way? Jes’ tell me.”
The old Judge turned red with anger.
“Mr. Sheriff,” he thundered, “take this prisoner to jail!”
For a moment Tom was thunderstruck. Could it be possible Marse John really meant it? Was Marse John, the only white friend he had, about to desert him? Quick as a shot he changed his tactics. He had tried his straight flush and had failed. Now for his royal flush.
“Hol’ on, Marse John! hol’ on!” Tom cried, dropping his funny ways and assuming a look of intense earnestness and desperate seriousness. “You dun ax me now, an’ if nuffin’ else gwi’ do you, I hafter tell you whut I do kno’ erbout it. An you’ll ’skuze me, Marse John, ef I happens not to be mealy-mouf ’bout tellin’ it, nurther; fur you makin’ me do it, whuther-no. But I want you, gemmen ob de jury, an’ de shearf dar, an’ dese lawyers heah, an’ all ob you, to b’ar witness to de fac’, dat Marse John don’ fotch all dis row down on hisse’f, befo’ all dese heah folks heah, er-tryin’ to scan’lize my rippertashun. ’Stid ob sayin’ to you all at the berry fus’, befo’ dis row was urver started: ‘Gem’men, dese seedlings am squash, an’ dis ole nigger kin go!’ he sot up dar on dat bench an’ kerry dis thing on, an’ kerry it on, an’ aig you all on, an’ aig you on, er s’archin’ an’ er s’archin’ an’ er axin’ questions, an’ er nosin’ round in my privut bus’ness twell you all, gemmen, jes’ bleegter go out an’ fotch in dis heah vurdick—an’ I don’t blame you all ’tall, gem’men; I don’t think hard of you ’tall. But I sut’n’y was ’sprised at Marse John, when he turn roun’ so sassy-lak in dat cheer, much es ter say: ‘You ole rascal, I’ve got you now! Whut you gotter say erbout it?’
“Erhuh! Erhuh!” said Tom, chuckling and scratching his head in deep thought. “Wall, suh, heah’s whut I gotter say erbout it: In korse I tuck de majuh’s little bitter old po’ shoat! But I jes’ swap fur ’im, an’ de majuh kno’ as well es I do I was gwi’ gib ’im ernudder one back dis fawl, soon es my ole sower hed pigs—an’ er heap better shoat den I got fum ’im, too; fur, es you all kno’, my old sower is three-quarters Burksheer, an’ ’fo’ Gord, gem’men, es I stan’ heah on my oaf, ’kordin’ to de supervisement of Marse John, to tell you all whut I kno’ ’bout dis thing, dat wus de little bitteres’, no-countes’ pig I urver swap fur in all my life! Gem’men, he didn’t make me one good meal fur de old ’oman an’ de ten older chilluns, let ’lone de two twins—de majuh an’ de jedge. We had ter put dese ter bed befo’ supper, by tellin’ ’em we gwi’ have de pig fur bre’kfus’, an’ ter make ’aste an’ go ter sleep so ester wake up soon in de mohnin’ an’ git dey sheer. Arter dey went to sleep, we greased de majuh’s an’ de jedge’s mouf wid sum cracklin’ skin, an’ put er plate ob rib-bones an’ scraps by de baid, an’ de naixt mohnin’ when dey wake up, we tell ’em dey dun eat dair part whilst dey sleep, an’ dey b’leeve it to dis day! Now, ain’t dat er hog fur ter be kickin’ up sech er dust erbout? Ef it ain’t so, gem’men, an’ dat wa’nt de littles’ razzerback I eber swap fur, den I ain’t nurver stole horgs in Georgy!
“Erhuh! Erhuh!” said Tom, reminiscently again. “Nurver stole horgs in Georgy? Hi-yi-ee! An’ now I’m gettin’ dar, is I? But b’ar in min’, gem’men, Marse John dun fotch all dis down on hisse’f. I’d nurver tole on ’im—no! not eben at de jedgment mohn—don’t keer how hard old Gabri’l keep tootin’ his horn, an’ er lookin’ at me so s’archin’ lak wid his fiah eyes, an’ er sayin’: ‘Tom, whut you kno’ ’bout horg stealin’ in Georgy?’ An’ I jes’ say: ‘Nuffin,’ Marse Gabri’l, nuffin, ’tall, suh, Gord bless you, Marse Gabri’l: nurver was in Georgy in my life, suh, Gord bless you!’ But I can’t say dat now no more, gem’men, ’kase Marse John hisse’f dun ax me to tell whut I kno’ ’bout it!
“Gem’men, when I fus’ went to de wah wid Marse John, fur ter wait on ’im, I was es hones’ es de noonday sun; but I didn’t bin in de wah six weeks befo’ I’d steal ennything frum er saddle blanket to de hoss dat wus under it; ennything frum er hen-aig to de guv’ment steer! An’ why? ’Kase Marse John dar had ter hab sumpin’ n’ur ter eat. You think I gwi’ see my young Marster starve ter def’ fightin’ day an’ night, wid no chance to git nuffin’ to eat, an’ libin’ on parch cohn an’ Georgy branch water, an’ hit smellin’ ob de week’s washin’ ob de po’ Georgy white trash up de creek, allers washin’ dey clothes in it? Ruther walk five miles to wash dey clothes in er branch den ter hab som-body wash ’em fur ’em in er silver-lined wash-tub. You think I gwi’ see ’im starve, I say, jes’ on ’count ob er littl ’lig’us skooples? Menny an’ menny a mohnin’, suh, Marse John ’ud git up from camp so hongry an’ weak he couldn’t hardly walk, an’ say: ‘Tom, you sly raskil! did you furage enny las’ night?’ (He call it furagin’ den, gem’men!) An’ I’d laf an’ say: ‘Marse John, you kno’ you ain’t nurver gin me no money fur to get ennything!’ An’ den he’d laf an’ say: ‘G’long, you sly raskil, an’ fotch in my bre’kfus’!—jes lak he wus orderin’ it from er resterrant. An’ den I’d laf an’ fotch ’im out de sof’-b’iled aigs, an’ de br’iled chicken, an’ de home-made Georgy kwored ham, an’ de biskits. An’, fo’ Gord, gem’men, in all dat campange I nurver knowed ’im to challenge de rigularity ob his empanelmen’ nur ter s’arch too close into de wharfore ob de fotchness. Nur did I eber kno’ ’im ter go out an’ hab er jury ob twelve men fotch roun’ to de tent to hol’ enny inques’ ober de remains ob dat fellerny, wid er leetle ole s’archin’ lawyer fur to ax quextunes, an’ keep hintin’ ’bout stealin’, an’ de pen’tenshury, an’ all dat! No, suh, gem’men; ’stid ob all dis hooraw an’ red-tape, he’d jes’ smile all ober an’ fall to an’ say: ‘Gord bless you, Tom; you am er jewel, an’ no mistake!’
“Now, whar’d dem aigs cum frum, Marse John, an’ dem chickens? Whar’d I laf an’ tell you dey cum from? Ax de Georgy hen-roosts frum Ringgold to Dalton. An’ whar’d dem home-kwored hams cum frum? Ax de smoke-houses ob de widders in de mountings frum Chat’nooger to Atlanter! Erhuh! ’Twas furagin’ den, wus it; an’ it won’ no harm fur to eat de po’ widders’ las’ ham or slorter de chickens ob de innercents, long es you didn’t pull ’em yo’se’f? Erhuh? An’ I ax you right now, gem’men, ef he didn’t read outen a book dis mohnin’ mos’ Solomonly, an’ ’splain to you all mos’ capisly, dat de ’sessery to de crime mus de same es de ’sessor? Erhuh! ’Scuse me, Marse John, fur recognizin’ dis thing so p’intedly, but you kno’ yo’se’f you tell me most p’intedly ter tell whut I kno’ er-bout it, an’ I’m bleegter do it!
“Ole Gabri’l hisse’f c’u’dn’t made me do whut you kin!
“An’ dar’s de majuh, er settin’ an’ er smilin’ an’ er aigin’ dis thing on. Mebbe he’d lakter kno’ whut I gotter say erbout it! Lemme ax you, majuh, ef you disremembers de week befo’ de battle ob Resaker, an’ dat mohnin’ you cum ober to me an’ Marse John’s tent an’ say: ‘Tom, you theevin’ son ob darkness, me an’ yo’ Marse John wanter hab little Jo, an’ General Cheatem, an’ Pat Claybu’n, ober in de tent fur supper ter-morrow, fur we’re all hongry an’ want sumpin’ fit ter eat. We can’t fight fureber on er empty stummic. Now, you jes’ git on my hoss, ter-day, an git er huff on you, you black scamp, an’ go up in dese hills an’ hollers, an’ steal ennything fit ter eat in hair, hide or feathers—jes’ make dese Georgy hen-roosts howl! Git us sumpin’ fit fur de men dat’s gwinter eat it, Tom, fur yo’ rippertashun es er furager is sho’ at stake!’
“Erhuh! Erhuh! You ain’t furgot dat, is you, majuh, nur de supper I got up fur you all? Er hole b’iled ham—I stole dat frum er widder’s smokehouse whilst I wus pricin’ aigs wid her, an’ watchin’ de lay ob de hen-house, waitin’ fur de moon to go down. Er tucky gobbler which I mistuck an’ shot fur er wild one, meanderin’ round in er meader in front ob er orphin ’sylum. Biskits frum flour I got outer er mill dat seem ter kinder run itse’f, an’ two gallins ob mountain dew I stole outen er hard-shell preacher’s cellar. An’ when all de ginerels dun sot round de pine boards I fix up fur er table, an’ I fotch all dem things in, smokin’ hot an’ smellin’ lak er supper in heaben, didn’t all the ginerels’ eyes sparkle lak di’mon’s; an’ little Jo up an’ say: ‘Why, majuh, you ax us ter supper, an’ sot us down to er banquet! Whar in de wurl you git all dis?”
“An’ den you wink yo’ eye at Marse John, an’ say: ‘Gineral Johnson, ef you’d jes’ p’int dat nigger Tom, dar, Cheef ob de Commissary Departmen’ ob de Army ob Tennessee, we’d nurver go hongry enny mo’, an’ we’d whip Gineral Sherman in two weeks!’
“An’ den you all laf, an’ went to furagin’.
“Erhuh! Ain’t dat so? An’ lemme ax you, majah, whut’s de difference in furagin’ in wah an’ in peace? An’ s’pose sum thirty years arter de wah me an’ my fambly ’bout to starve, an’ I heah de chillun cryin’ fur sumpin’ ter eat, an’ I goes by yo’ lot sum dark night er kinder dreamin’ all de time an’ sorter libin’ lak er ole man will, in de past, an’ I ’gin ter think I’m in dat bloody wah erg’in, an’ out furagin’ fur you an’ Marse John, an’ I happen ter knock over one ob yo’ little ole razzer-back shoats, ter take back ter camp ergin—is dat ennything fur ter raise sech er hooraw erbout? Ain’t I gwi’ gi’ you er nudder one back dis fawl? Jes’ tell me!
“But dat ain’t all, Marse John; an’ you kno’ you ax me to tell it all! Who wus it nussed you, day an’ night, when you had de chills an’ fever in camp round Atlanter? Who wus it stood by yo’ side at de bridge, whar de giner’l tole you to hol’ wid yo’ kumpny tell dey capture you or kill you, an’ when de Yankees cum lak bees er swarmin’, an’ shot you outen de saddle, an’ dey captured you, bleedin’ to def—who pick you up an’ kerry you quick to de Yankee surgun’s tent an’ tied de art’ry dat sabed yo’ life? An’ who nussed you in de hospital, day an’ night, er stealin’ aigs fur you when hard-tack would er kilt you, an’ young chickens when bacon meant def? An’ when you got well ernuf ter be keeried to Johnson’s Islan’, who wus it, ’stid ob gwine on wid Sherman’s army to freedom, nurver to be er slave enny mo’, gether’d up yo’ things, took de letter you writ, an’ footed it all de way to Alabama to tell Miss Mary you wus safe an’ well? An’ when he got dar, an’ seed Miss Mary—Gord bless ’er—er cryin’ in de door, an’ de chillun cryin’ erroun’ er’, ’kase when dey seed me bringin’ back yo’ things dey dun gib you up fur dead, lak de papers sed, an’ when I got up close ernuf ter tell ’er you wus safe an’ well, an’ gib ’er de letter you saunt, an’ tell ’er how I cum jes’ ter bring yo’ letter an’ things an’ sword an’ pistol home, who wus it but de statelies’ an’ queenlies’ ’oman in de State—now, thang Gord, one ob de anguls in heaben—dat wept ober an’ clung to dis ole black han’ dat now you say am de han’ ob de hog-theef, an’ fit only fur de pen’tenshury; an’ es ’er tears ob gladness drapt on it, she smiled sweetly through it all, an’ say: ‘Oh, Tom! Tom! Gord will reward you sum day fur this, fur though you am po’ an’ black an’ a slave, you have acted the whites’ ob de white; you chose yo’ duty befo’ yo’ own freedom!’
“Dat’s whut she sed, Marse John; yo’ own blessed wife an’ my Mistis’ dat’s in heab’n an’ de grandes’ women dat now libs in dat lan’ ob light! An’ dar I staid, Marse John, an’ ’tended de place an’ wurked de crap, an’ tuck keer ob Miss Mary an’ de chilluns tell you cum home yo’se’f. Dat’s de truf, Marse John, es you kno’ it is yo’se’f; and now I’ve tole it all es you ax me.”
And Tom sat down.
From suppressed laughter in the beginning of Tom’s speech, the entire court had now dropped into subdued sympathy, and even tears. The old Judge himself blew his nose vigorously, and looked carefully over his charges again, while the major came up and whispered in his ear. Finally he said, quietly, yet subduedly:
“The court is of opinion it has been too hasty in this matter, for, on reading carefully the second charge submitted by the defendant’s counsel, the court is convinced it erred in not giving this charge to the jury. The verdict is, therefore, set aside, and a new trial will be given the defendant.”
And Tom walked out quietly and solemnly, but a free man yet. But the case never came to a trial again. Tom was not himself from that day on. He was sobered, subdued, crushed. He seemed to think “Marse John had gone back on him.” He quit drinking, fighting, and disputing on things religious. He even quit telling his experience “endurin’ de wah,” and, more wonderful still, he actually went to work. All this was too much for him. As the day approached for the trial he became melancholy, morbid, and finally took to his bed in earnest. At first they thought he would get up soon, but he grew rapidly worse; and a week before the trial, the doctor said that Tom would never “furage” again. The old Judge was holding court in another county, and had not heard of Tom’s sickness. He promptly called the case in its order on the docket. Tom’s lawyer read the physician’s certificate as to Tom’s condition. The old Judge looked worried—even troubled. Then he glanced around the court—the major was not there. He took up his pen and wrote quickly across the docket: “Case nolle prossed; no prosecutor!” and as soon as the court adjourned he went by Tom’s cabin to see if he wanted anything, and to tell him about the nol prossing his case. As he neared the cabin he heard the uncanny music of the negro mourning song, and it startled him as he went in and found them chanting it around Tom’s bed.
He looked at Tom; he was sober, but dying.
The old Judge went up, sat by the bed, and took Tom tenderly by the hand. The negro’s face lit up for a moment with its old-time light as he recognized the old Judge. Then he remembered:
“Will dey try me ergin; will dey convict de old man ergin, Marse John?” eagerly asked Tom.
“Not while I am Judge of this circuit, Tom—never!” as he gripped Tom’s hand.
“Thang Gord, Marse John! thang Gord! I knew you—wouldn’t! You see I—wus—jes’ furagin’! The majuh knowed it—jes’ furagin’.” He was quiet a little and dozed some. Then he sprang half-way up in bed—a startled look in his eye:
“Lemme out! lemme out!” he cried. “Don’t you hear it, Marse John? Dat’s taps—de army ob de Tennessee am sleepin’—de lights mos’ out—I must hustle an’ git sumpin’ to eat—I mus’ furage—gwine on er long furage—but I’ll wait—on—you—foreber—in—de—camp—dar, Marse John——.” He broke off suddenly; a radiant light gleamed in his eyes; “Miss Mary, my mistis; O dar she am, beckinin’ an’ smilin’ to po’ ole Tom; beckinin’ an’ smilin’, ‘Gord will reward—you—sum—day!’ Oh, home, home, Marse John!”
Two hours later the old Judge came out of Tom’s cabin, crying like a boy. Tom had gone on his last “furage.”