“No, them is our provision boxes, master. Show de gemman some of der tobacco, dah.” (To the boy.)
A couple of negroes here passed along near us; the old man hailed them:
“Ho dah, boys! Doan you want to buy some backey?”
“No.” (Decidedly.)
“Well, I’m sorry for it.” (Reproachfully.)
“Are you bound homeward, now?” I asked.
“No, master; wish me was; got to sell all our backey fuss; you don’t want none, master, does you? Doan you tink it pretty fair tobacco, sar? Juss try it: it’s right sweet, reckon you’ll find.”
“I don’t wish any, thank you; I never use it. Is your master with you?”
“No, sar; he’s gone across to Marion, to-day.”
“Do you like to be travelling about, in this way?”