“Your hat is under your crib, dear, but you can’t go with Joe to-day.”
“’Ess; me doin’,” he returned, obstinately, securing the hat, while I was carrying the Bible out to Joe.
“Now, Joe, take good care of it!” I counseled him, as he stooped down to take the bulky volume from my arms.
“Keer? Ha! I reckons I’se boun’ fur tek’ keer ob dat book! Lots ob folks w’at done all sorts ob t’ings, shet up ’atween de leds ob dat book. Some good t’ings dey done, an’ a mighty lot o’ bad ones, an’ I ain’ goin’ let none ob ’em git out! Leslie, chile, I’se gwine sot on dat book, an’ keep dem folks squelched ’til we all roun’s up in front ob de ’lan’ office; yo’ kin count on dat!”
Placing the book on the wagon-seat, he spread a blanket over it, then planted himself, squarely and with emphasis, upon it. “Dere, dey’s safe!” He gathered up the lines; the outfit was in motion when its progress was suddenly arrested by a piercing cry from Ralph:
“’Top, ’top, Joe! Me’s doin’ wiv’ ’oo, me is!”
The little fellow was standing beside the wagon, his arms upstretched to be taken, and the tears streaming down his cheeks. Joe looked at him, and scratched his head in perplexity. “I’se wisht’ yo’d stayed asleep till I’se done got away, honey, chile—I does so!” he muttered, ruefully.
“Me’s doin’!” Ralph insisted, taking advantage of the halt to swarm up over the wheel-hub, and to get his white apron covered with wagon-grease.
“Me is doin’!” he repeated.
“Train up a chile in de way w’at he wants ter go, an’ w’en he is ole he won’t depart from it!” Joe quoted, with fatal aptness. “Dat chile cain’t be ’lowed fur ter run t’ings dish yer way; he cain’t be ’lowed ter go to town, noway; but I tell yo’ w’at, honey, yo’ might jess slip er clean apern on ter him an’ let him ride down ter Wilson’s ’long ’er me. Dat Mis’ Wilson, she always bein’ tickled when she see Ralph.”