“Dar was a time, a long way back, Marse Rupert—’fore you was borned—when I seemed to year a good deal ’bout Marse Thomas. Dat was when he went away in dat curi’s fashion. Nobody knowed whar he went, an’ nobody knowed quite why. It wus jes’ afore ye’ maw an’ paw wus married. Some said him an’ de Jedge qua’lled ’cause Marse Thomas he said he warn’t gwine ter be no medical student, an’ some said he was in love with some young lady dat wouldn’t ’cept of him.”
“Did they?” said Rupert.
“Dat dey did,” Matt said; “an’ a lot moah. But ev’rybody think it mighty strange him a-gwine, an’ no one never huntin’ him up afterwards. Seemed most like dey didn’t keer nothin’ ’bout him.”
“They didn’t, damn them!” said Rupert, with sudden passion. “And he was worth the whole lot.”
“Dat what make I say what I gwine ter,” said Matt, with some eagerness. “What I heerd about Marse Thomas make me think he must be er mighty fine gen’leman, an’ one what’d be a good fren’ to anyone. An’ dishyer ve’y mawnin’ I heerd sump’n mo’ about him.”
Rupert raised himself upon his elbow.
“About Uncle Tom!” he exclaimed. “You have heard something about Uncle Tom to-day?”
“I foun’ out whar he went, Marse Rupert,” said Matt, much roused. “I foun’ out whar he is dishyer ve’y instep. He’s in Hamlin County, keepin’ sto’ an’ post-office at Talbot’s Cross-roads; an’, frum what I heah, Marse Tom De Willoughby de mos’ pop’larist gen’leman an’ mos’ looked up ter in de county.”
“Who—who did you hear it from?” demanded Rupert.
Uncle Matt put his foot upon a rustic seat near and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee and making impressive gestures with his yellow-palmed old hand.