Chad waited until the boy had mounted the steps and entered the house, then he turned to me.
“Po’ li’l chin’ka’pin—he don’t know no better. How’s he gwine to git a bringin’ up? Miss Nancy tryin’ to teach him, but she ain’t gwine make nuffin’ of him. He’s got pizened by dis freedom talk, an’ he ain’t gwine to git cured. Fust thing ye know he’ll begin to think he’s good as white folks, an’ when he’s got dat in his head he’s done for. I’m gwine to speak to de Mist’iss ’bout dat boy, an’ see if sumpin can’t be done to save him fo’ it gits too late; ain’t nuffin’ gwine to do him no good but a barr’l stave—hear dat—a barr’l stave!”
The Colonel had come in quietly and stood listening. I had heard the click of the outer gate, but supposed it was the grocer returning with the additional supplies.
“Who’s Chad goin’ to thresh, Major?” the Colonel asked, with a smile as he put his arm over my shoulder.
“Miss Nancy’s pickaninny,” I answered.
“What, little Jim?” There was a tone of surprise now in the Colonel’s voice.
Chad stood abashed for a moment. He had stowed away the groceries, and had the duck in his hand again, his fingers fumbling among its feathers.
“’Scuse me, Colonel, I ain’t gwine whale him, of co’se, ’thout yo’ permission, but he’s dat puffed up he’ll bust fo’ long.”
“What’s he been up to?”