“It was dishyer claimin’ dat brung it about,” he said; “dishyer claimin’ an’ ’demnification what’s been a-settin’ pow’fle heavy on my min’ fur long ’nuff. Soon’s I yeerd tell on it, Marse Rupert, it set me ter steddyin’. I been a-watchin’ out an’ axin’ questions fur weeks, an’ when I fin’ out——”
“But what has that to do with Uncle Tom?” cried Rupert.
“A heap, Marse Rupert. Him an’ you de onliest heirs to de De Willoughby estate; an’ ef a little hoosier what’s los’ a yoke er oxen kin come down on de Guv’ment for ’demnification, why can’t de heirs of a gen’leman dat los’ what wus gwine ter be de biggest fortune in de South’n States. What’s come er dem gold mines, Marse Rupert, dat wus gwine ter make yo’ grandpa a millionaire—whar is dey? What de Yankees done with dem gol’ mines?”
“They weren’t gold mines, Uncle Matt,” said Rupert; “they were coal mines; and the Yankees didn’t carry them away. They only smashed up the machinery and ruined things generally.”
But he laid back upon the grass again with his hands clasped behind his head and his brow drawn down thoughtfully.
“Coal mines er gol’ mines,” said Uncle Matt. “Guv’ment gotter ’demnify ef things er managed right; en dat what make me think er Marse Thomas De Willoughby when dat little Stamps feller said somep’n dat soun’ like his name. ‘Now dar’s D‘Willerby,’ he ses, ‘big Tom D‘Willerby,’ en I jest jumped on him. ‘Did you say De Willoughby, sah?’ I ses, an’ from dat I foun’ out de rest.”
“I should like to see him,” said Rupert; “I always thought I should like to know where he was—if he was alive.”
“Why doan’ you go an’ see him, den?” said Matt. “Jest take yo’ foot in yo’ han’ an’ start out. Hamlin County ain’t fur, Marse Rupert, an’ de Cross-roads Pos’-office mighty easy to fin’; and when you fin’ it an’ yo’ uncle settin’ in de do’, you jest talk ter him ’bout dem gol’ mines an’ dat claimin’ business an’ ax his devise ’bout ’em. An’ ef yer doan’ fin’ yo‘se’f marchin’ on ter Wash‘n’ton city an’ a-talkin’ to de Pres’dent an’ de Senators, de whole kit an’ bilin’ of ’em, Marse Thomas ain’t de buz’ness gen‘l’man what I believe he is.”
Rupert lay still and looked straight before him, apparently at a bluebird balanced on a twig, but it was not the bird he was thinking of.
“You’se young, Marse Rupert, an’ it ’ud be purty dang’rous for a onexperienced young gen‘l’man ter lan’ down in de midst er all dem onprinciple’ Yankees with a claim to hundreds of thousan’s of dollars. Marse Thomas, he’s a settled, stiddy gen‘l’man, en, frum what I hears, I guess he’s got a mighty ’stablished-lookin’ ’pearance.”