“Reg’lar wuk?” asked the boy, his eyes growing saucer-like in astonishment, “I ain’t
“WHO IS YOUR MISS DOROTHY?”
got no reg’lar wuk. I feeds de chickens, sometimes, and fin’s hens’ nests an’ min’s chillun, an’ dribes de tukkeys into de tobacco lots to eat de grasshoppers an’ I goes aftah de mail. Dat’s what I’se a doin’ now. Leastways I’se a comin’ back wid de mail wot I done been an’ gone after.”
“Is that all?”
“Dat’s nuff, ain’t it, Mahstah?”
“I don’t know. I wonder what your new master will think when he comes.”
“Golly, so do I. Anyhow, he’s a Yankee, an’ he won’t know how much wuk a nigga ought to do. I’ll be his pussonal servant, I reckon. Leastways dat’s what Miss Dorothy say she tink.”
“Who is your Miss Dorothy?” the young man asked with badly simulated indifference, for this was a member of the Wyanoke family of whom Dr. Arthur Brent had never before heard.
“Miss Dorothy? Why, she’s jes’ Miss Dorothy, so.”