“Better give up all thought of getting away,” said Nic despondently.
“Bah! Never zay die, Master Nic. Why, there’s the old place at home seeming to hold out its finger to us, beckoning-like, and zaying ‘Come,’ and once I do get back, you’ll never ketch me meddling with no one’s zalmon again. But look here, zir, we thought it all out before, and I don’t see as we can better it.”
“I feel hopeless, Pete.”
“And I feel as if I’ve got ’nough o’ that stuff in me for both. Wish we could be hoeing together again, so as we could talk it over.”
“I wish so too, Pete.”
“It aren’t half so pleasant hoeing along with the blacks as it is with you, zir.”
“Thank you, Pete,” said Nic, smiling to himself.
“I aren’t got nought agen ’em. They can’t help having black skins and them thick lips, and they’re wonderful good-tempered. Just big children, that’s what they are. Fancy a man being a zlave and ready to zing and dance ’cause the moon zhines, ready to go out hunting the coons and ’possums as if there was nothing the matter.”
“It’s their nature to be light-hearted,” said Nic.
“Light-hearted, zir? Why, there’s one o’ the gang along with me as allus seems as if you were tickling him. Only to-day he drops hisself down and rolls about in the hot sun, and does nothing but laugh, just because he’s happy. Why, I couldn’t laugh now if I tried.”