“Mass’ Cranston, is dat de way yer does yer duty? I’se agoin’ ter jail ef I hab ter walk dere alone, an’ tell de jedge dat de constable run off an’ leff me. I ain’t no runnagadore. I’se goin’ in de cause ob de right. You’se ’rested me, an’ I’se agoin’ ter stay ’rested. I nebber see a jail, anyway, an’ I wants ter see one. Times neber’ll be good in dis country till bof people an’ rulers knows erbout de instertootions ob de lan’!”
Again did the baffled sheriff explain and expostulate and seek to rouse in Cuddy a sense of pride and dread of shame. “It’s most time for ’Lection Day, Cuddy. You’ll never be elected again if you go to jail. They’ll never want a rogue for Gov’nor.”
“’Cause de Gov’nor am a rogue this year ain’t no sign de next one won’t be,” answered wise Cuddy. And when the constable had straightened out Cuddy’s ambiguous thought, he said to himself that black politics were much like white.
“I can’t see why all you blacks are so dishonest and tricky!”
“Why, Mass’ Cranston” (with an injured but unresentful air), “dey has ter be—dey so kep’ down. It all de fault ob dat unrageous ole George Washin’ton. When he a-dyin he rolls his eyes an’ say: ‘Forebber keep de nigger down’—an’ it take a hundred year to work out a dyin’ spell.”
This astounding piece of post-mortem news about the Father of his Country was new to the constable, though it was commonly believed by negroes then as now. He answered Cuddy severely and sharply:
“Who told you that nonsense? It’s no reason, anyway. There is no need for any nigger to be dishonest unless he wants to.”
“Now, Mass’ Cranston, dis’ jess de way I looks at it. Times nebber’ll be good in dis country till things is fixed an’ proputty’s divided so no one can’t be poor; den no one can’t be dishonest, cause ef dey has plenty dey won’t want ter be.”
The constable felt that it was useless to argue further with such a philosopher, and rode on for some time in silence; then he desperately exclaimed: “Cuddy, what’ll you take to go home again? I can’t bother any longer with you. I’ve got to go to Wickford to-night, and you can’t walk there.”
The old negro shook his head profoundly and thoughtfully, and sighed deeply, as though abandoning with keen regret a dearly loved and cherished plan; then he said, solemnly: