“The dirty dog!” Bill’s face was hot with anger.
“I should say so!” Dorothy’s tone matched Bill’s in vehemence.
Uncle Abe shook his head. “De Good Book say, ‘Him what has, gits, and him what ain’t got nuffin’ gits dat nuffin’ tuk’n away’,” he remarked a bit sadly. “But dis hyar niggeh ain’t got no complaint, ma’am. Ol’ Man River has sho’ got a warm cabin. He ken trap Brer Rabbit in de woods, and ’times he gits Brer Possum. Marse Johnson pays fer a spell o’ work once in a while and dat pays foh things he haster buy over to de store. I kinder git de idee, Missy, dat dis hyar ol’ man is livin’ on de top o’ de worl’.”
“Well, maybe,” answered Dorothy, “but I call it doggone mean, just the same. Tell me, Uncle, outside of being mean and heartless, what sort of man is this John J. Joyce?”
“Waal, you see’d how he done me, Missy. Jes’ git up an’ go—didn’t say he wuz sorry or nuffin’. He’s rich and he’s sharp. Maybe he’s honest, I don’t know, but I’se allus thought as how Marse Conway ’ud done better if he’d er hoed his own ’taters. But I reckon dis niggeh hadn’t oughter be crit’sizin’ de quality.”
“Quality, nothing!” exploded Bill. “Mr. Conway was all right—at least, George is—but the other fellow is the worst kind of a polecat!”
“Den yo’all knows Marse George?”
“Yes, Uncle, he’s a friend of ours,” said Dorothy. “And he is right up to his neck in trouble just now. Anything you can tell us about his father will be a big help.”
Uncle Abe pushed his plate away and leaned his elbows on the table.
“Dey ain’t much I kin tell,” he announced, “but I’se knowed Marse George since he wuz a l’il boy. He wuz allus nice an’ friendly with Uncle Abe.”