“No, my lad; but if you don’t tie down that jockey or chain him by the leg, he’ll be off one of these days. I’m always finding him sitting a-top of the fence like a crow with his wing cut, thinking he wished he could fly.”
“Looking out for the Indians,” I said.
“Not him, sir; he’s thinking about games in the woods; hunting snakes, catching ’gators, or killing ’coons. He’s getting a nice howdacious one, he is. If it wasn’t for his black skin, you might think he was a reg’lar boy.”
“So he is,” I said; “what difference does his skin make? I like old Pomp.”
“Well, sir,” said Morgan, thoughtfully, “I like old Hannibal—old Vanity, as you call him; but you know he is black.”
“Of course.”
“Very black, Master George. Why, I should say he’s got the blackest skin and the whitest teeth of any one I ever did see.”
“And I dare say he thinks you’ve got the whitest skin and the blackest teeth he ever saw.”
“Now—now—now—now—Master George; gently there, if you please. My skin’s getting redder and browner every day, so as I don’t half know myself when I shaves; and as to my teeth, just wait till you’ve used yours five-and-forty year, and had to eat such beef as I’ve had to eat in the army, and you won’t be quite so proud of them bits o’ ivory of yours, look you.”
“Why don’t you leave off saying ‘Look you,’ Morgan? It’s always ‘Look you,’ or ‘Teclare to cootness,’ and it does sound so stupid.”