"Is dey anything wrong wid dat ham er—"
"It is wonderful, Zachariah. I don't believe I have ever tasted better ham,—and certainly none so well broiled."
"Ain't—ain't de co'n-bread fitten to eat, suh?"
"Delicious, Zachariah, delicious. You have performed wonders with the—er—new baking pan and—"
"What's de matteh wid dem b'iled pertaters, suh?"
"Matter with them? Nothing! They are fine."
"Well, den, suh, if dere ain't nothin' de matteh wid de vittels, dere suttinly mus' be somefin de matteh wid you, Marse Kenneth. Yo' all ain't etten enough fo' to fill a grasshoppeh."
"I am not hungry," apologized his master, quite humbly.
"'Cause why? Yas, suh,—'cause why?" retorted Zachariah, exercising a privilege derived from long and faithful service. "'Cause Miss Viola she done got yo' all bewitched. Can't fool dis yere nigger. Wha' fo' is yo' all feelin' dis yere way 'bout yo' own sister? Yas, suh,—Ah done had my eyes open all de time, suh. Yo' all was goin' 'round lookin' like a hongry dog, 'spectin'—Yas, suh! Yas, SUH! Take plenty, suh, Marse Johnson he say to me, he say, 'Dis yere sap come right outen de finest maple tree in de State ob Indianny, day befo' yesterday,' he say. A leetle mo' coffee, suh? Yas, suh! Das right! Yo' suttinly gwine like dat ham soon as ever yo' get a piece in yo' mouth,—yas, SUH!"
Kenneth's abstraction was due to the never-vanishing picture of Viola, the sleeves of her work-dress rolled up to the elbows, her eyes aglow with enthusiasm, her bonny brown hair done up in careless coils, her throat bare, her spirits as gay as the song of a roistering gale. She had come over prepared for toil, an ample apron of blue gingham shielding her frock, her skirts caught up at the sides, revealing the bottom of her white petticoat and a glimpse of trim, shapely ankles.