“How? what do you mean?”
“Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.”
“The what?”
“De bug,—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere ’bout de head by dat goole-bug.”
“And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?”
“Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sick a deuced bug—he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go ’gin mighty quick, I tell you—den was de time he must ha’ got de bite. I did n’t like de look oh de bug mouff, myself, no how, so I would n’t take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper and stuff piece ob it in he mouff—dat was de way.”
“And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the beetle, and that the bite made him sick?”
“I do n’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What make him dream ’bout de goole so much, if ’taint cause he bit by de goole-bug? Ise heerd ’bout dem goole-bugs fore dis.”
“But how do you know he dreams about gold?”
“How I know? why ’cause he talk about it in he sleep—dat’s how I nose.”