"Wal," said Nimbus, "ef dat's what yer say, we'll hev ter let de
'Bureau' settle it."
"What, sir? You rascal, do you threaten me with the 'Bureau'?" shouted Desmit, starting toward him in a rage, and aiming a blow at him with the heavy walking-stick he carried.
"Don't do dat, Marse Desmit," cried the colored man; "don't do dat!"
There was a dangerous gleam in his eye, but the white man did not heed the warning. His blow fell not on the colored man's head, but on his upraised arm, and the next moment the cane was wrested from his hands, and the recent slave stood over his former master as he lay upon the floor, where he had fallen or been thrown, and said:
"Don't yer try dat, Marse Desmit; I won't bar it—dat I won't, from no man, black ner white. I'se been a sojer sence I was a slave, an' ther don't no man hit me a lick jes cos I'm black enny mo'. Yer's an' ole man, Marse Desmit, an' yer wuz a good 'nough marster ter me in the ole times, but yer mustn't try ter beat a free man. I don't want ter hurt yer, but yer mustn't do dat!"
"Then get out of here instantly," said Desmit, rising and pointing toward the door.
"All right, Marse," said Nimbus, stooping for his hat; "'tain't no use fer ye to be so mad, though. I jes come fer to make a trade wid ye."
"Get out of here, you damned, treacherous, ungrateful, black rascal.
I wish every one of your whole race had the small-pox! Get out!"
As Nimbus turned to go, he continued:
"And get your damned lazy tribe off from my plantation before to-morrow night, if you don't want the dogs put on them, too!"