“Whar de close bresh?” repeated Big Abel, scornfully.
“What would Saphiry say, I'd like to know?” went on Dan. “It isn't fair to Saphiry to run off this way.”
“Don' you bodder 'bout Saphiry,” responded Big Abel. “I'se done loss my tase fur Saphiry, young Marster.”
“I tell you you're a fool,” snapped out Dan, sharply.
“De Lawd he knows,” piously rejoined Big Abel, and he added: “Dar ain' no use a-rumpasin' case hyer I is en hyer I'se gwine ter stay. Whar you run, dar I'se gwine ter run right atter, so 'tain' no use a-rumpasin'. Hit's a pity dese yer ain' nuttin' but summer close.”
Dan looked at him a moment in silence, then he put out his hand and slapped him upon the shoulder.
“You're a fool—God bless you,” he said.
“Go 'way f'om yer, young Marster,” responded the negro, in a high good-humour. “Dar's a speck er dut right on yo' shut.”
“Then give me another,” cried Dan, gayly, and threw off his coat.
When he went down stairs, carefully brushed, a half-hour afterward, the world had grown suddenly to wear a more cheerful aspect. He greeted Mrs. Hicks with his careless good-humour, and spoke pleasantly to the dirty white-haired children that streamed through the dining room.