He gave Matt a sharp look with a hint of inquiry in it, as if he was asking either his hearer or himself a question, and was not entirely certain of the answer.
“Now thar’s D’Willerby,” he went on. “Big Tom—Tom D’Willerby lost enough, the Lord knows. Fust one army, ‘n’ then another layin’ holt on his stock as it come over the road from one place an’ another, a-eatin’ of it up ‘n’ a-wearin’ his goods made up into shirts ‘n’ the like-‘n’ him left a’most cleaned out o’ everythin’. Why, Tom D’Willerby——”
“’Scuse me, sah,” interrupted Matt, “but did you say De Willoughby?”
“I said D’Willerby,” answered Mr. Stamps. “That’s what he’s called at the Cross-roads.”
There he stopped and stared at Matt a moment.
“My young master’s name’s De Willoughby, sah,” Matt said; “‘n’ de names soun’s mighty simulious when dey’s spoke quick. My young Marse, Rupert De Willoughby, he de gran’son er Jedge De Willoughby, an’ de son an’ heir er Cun’l De Courcy De Willoughby what died er yaller fever at Nashville.”
“Well, I’m doggoned,” the little man remarked, “I’d orter thought er thet. This yere’s Delisleville, ‘n’ I reckerlect hearin’ when fust he come to Hamlin thet he was some kin to some big bugs down ter D’lisleville, ‘n’ his father was a Jedge—doggoned ef I didn’t!”