"Yis, massa, dem's 'em, I'se gone dis time—shuah!"
"Well, away with you."
Old Job Carson was yet a rugged looking old gentleman. He had survived nearly all his "blood, kith and kin;" his sister had paid the last debt of nature some months before, and in hopes of finding some one to fill her station, in his domestic concerns, his advertisement had appeared in the Weekly Bulletin.
"Ah, me, it's no use crying about spilt milk," sighed the old gent over his glass. "I suppose I've been a fool; out-lived everybody, everything useful to me. Made a fortune first, nobody to spend it last. Yes, yes," continued the old man, in a thoughtful strain, "old Job Carson will soon slip off the handle; 'poor old devil,' some bloodsucker may say, as he grabs Job's worldly effects, 'he's gone, had a hard scrabble to get together these things, and now, we'll pick his bones.' Well, let 'em, let 'em; serves me right; ought to have known it before, but blast and rot 'em, if they only enjoy the pillage as much as I did the struggles to keep it together, why, a—it will be about an even thing with us, after all."
"Yis, massa, here I is," chuckled Banquo, again putting his black bullet pate in at the door.
"You are, eh? Well, clear yourself—no, come back; go down to Oatmeal's store, and tell him to let old Mrs. Dougherty, and the old blind man, and the sailor's wife, and—and—the rest of them, have their groceries, again, this week—only another week, mind, for I'm not going to support the whole neighborhood any longer—tell him so."
"Yis, massa, I'se gone."
"Wait, come here, Banquo; well, never mind—clear out."
But Banquo returned in a moment, saying:
"Dar's a lady at the doo-ah, sah; says she wants to see you, sah, 'bout 'ticlar business, sah."