It was Lazarus, I think, who most enjoyed the open fire. Stretched full length on the hearth, flat on his stomach, his chin in his hands, baking himself, he might have been one of his own ancestors of the African forest, for he was desperately black, and true to type. A runty little spindle-legged darky of thirteen, Lazarus had come to us second-hand, so to speak, from the county home. A family in the neighborhood was breaking up, and Lazarus's temporary adoption in the household was at an end. He had come on an errand one evening, and our interview then had led to his being transferred to our account.
"I goin' away nex' week," he said.
"Where are you going, Lazarus?"
"Back to de home, where I come from."
"What do you get for your work where you are now?"
"Boa'd and clo's an' whatever dey min' to give."
"What do you do?"
"Bring wood, wash dishes, and whatever dey wants me to."
"How would you like to come up here for a while?"
He had his eye on my target-rifle as he replied, "Yassah, I'd like it—what sort o' gun yo' got?"