"Some supper?"
"Lawd, no! I ain't hed time ter git ye supper."
"Some money? I don't want any money. My father gave me money in case of any necessity when I was to run the pickets—gold!" He chinked some coins alluringly in his pocket.
"'Tain't money. It's—cloes!"
"Clothes?" said Julius, uncertainly.
"'Twas dat ar tarrifyin' Rebel uniform dat got dee in dis trouble ter-day. Ye got ter change dem cloes. Ye can't run de pickets, an' ye can't git out'n de lines nohow in dem cloes."
Julius hesitated. The uniform was in one sense a protection. To be taken in his proper character, even lurking in hiding, did not necessarily expose him to the accusation of being a spy which capture in disguise would inevitably fix upon him.
"What clothes did you bring,—Aunt Chaney's?" he asked, prefiguring a female disguise, and reflecting on the ample size and notable height of the cook.
A sort of sharp yelp of dismay came out of the darkness. Old Ephraim wriggled and shuffled his feet audibly on the rocks in his effort at emphasis and absolute negation.
"Marse Julius you is gone deranged! Surely, surely, you is los' what sense you ever had! Chaney wouldn't loan ye ez much ez a apern or a skirt out'n her chist ter save ye from de pit o' perdition! I hes been reckless and darin' in my time, but de Lawd knows I never was so forsook by Providence as ter set out ter carry off any wearin' apparel belongin' ter dat 'oman, what's gin ober ter de love o' de cloes in her chist. Dat chist is de idol ob dat destracted heathen 'oman, an' de debbil will burn her well for de love o' de vanities she's got tucked away dar. Chaney's cloes! Gawd A'mighty! Chaney's cloes! Borry Chaney's cloes!"