Ratts. There's one name on the list of slaves scratched, I see.
Lafouche. Yes; No. 49, Paul, a quadroon boy, aged thirteen.
Sunny. He's missing.
Point. Run away, I suppose.
Pete. [Indignantly.] No, sar; nigger nebber cut stick on Terrebonne; dat boy's dead, sure.
Ratts. What, Picayune Paul, as we called, him, that used to come aboard my boat?—poor little darkey, I Hope not; many a picayune he picked up for his dance and nigger-songs, and he supplied our table with fish and game from the Bayous.
Pete. Nebber supply no more, sar—nebber dance again. Mas'r Ratts, you hard him sing about de place where de good niggers go, de last time.
Ratts. Well!
Pete. Well, he gone dar hisself; why, I tink so—'cause we missed Paul for some days, but nebber tout nothin' till one night dat Injiun Wahnotee suddenly stood right dar 'mongst us—was in his war paint, and mighty cold and grave—he sit down by de fire. "Whar's Paul?" I say—he smoke and smoke, but nebber look out ob de fire; well knowing dem critters, I wait a long time—den he say, "Wahnotee, great chief;" den I say nothing—smoke anoder time—last, rising to go, he turn round at door, and say berry low—O, like a woman's voice, he say, "Omenee Pangeuk,"—dat is, Paul is dead—nebber see him since.
Ratts. That red-skin killed him.