“Mammy makes me,” answered the boy, with a look of resentment in his face. “Mammy’s crazy about washin’. She makes me git inter a bar’l o’ suds ev’ry night an’ scrub myself like I was a floor. That’s cause she’s de head washerwoman at Wyanoke. She’s got washin’ on de brain.”
“So you’re one of the Wyanoke people, are you? Whom do you belong to now?”
“I don’t jes’ rightly know, Mahstah”—Dick sounded his a’s like “aw” in “claw.” “I don’t jes’ rightly know, Mahstah. Ole Mas’r he’s done daid, an’ de folks sez a young Yankee mahstah is a comin’ to take position.”
“To take possession, you mean, don’t you?”
“I dunno. Somefin o’ dat sort.”
“Why do you call him a Yankee master?”
“O ’cause he libs at de Norf somewhar. I reckon mebbe he ain’t quite so bad as dat. Dey say he was born in Ferginny, but I reckon he’s done lib in de Norf among the Yankees so long dat he’s done forgit his manners an’ his raisin.”
“What’s your name?” asked the young man, seemingly interested in Dick.
“My name’s Dick, Sah.”
“Dicksah—or Dick?”