“Wheah’s he gwine at?” demanded Ephraim, who had been in the way and unceremoniously pushed aside.
“Wattymillyouns!” yelled Jim, following the other boy’s lead.
“Wattymillyouns? Wat-ty-mill-youns? My hea’t o’ grace! I’se done gwine get some fo’ my Miss Betty!”
“For yo’se’f you-all means, yo’ po’ triflin’ ornery ole niggah! Ain’t it de trufe?” laughed Chloe, coming to the old man’s side, and laying a restraining hand upon his shoulder, while all her white teeth showed in a wide grin.
Safely anchored, the engineer gone, the old Captain bustling about on the roof of the boat, making all snug and shipshape for the coming night, every heart was light. None more so than those of the colored folks, always in the habit of leaving care to “their white” friends and like children in their readiness to forget the past.
Ephraim didn’t leap the plank, his “roomaticals” prevented; but he displayed a marvelous agility in getting ashore and speed in following the vanishing lads.
“What’s up?” demanded Melvin, running to where Chloe stood, holding her sides and shaking with laughter, “where have they gone?”
“Maggotty millyouns! Spyed a millyoun patch ovah yondah an’—Lan’ ob Goshen! If he ain’ done gwine, too! Well, my sake! Mebbe Chloe doan’ lub millyouns same’s anuddah, mebbe!”
As Melvin disappeared over the side, his own mouth watering for the southern delicacies so rare to his own northern home, mistress Chloe gathered up her petticoats and sprang ashore.