“Tough little fellahs, dese is,” said the teamster, patting them affectionately, “but mighty feared o’ Mars’ Tom, a’n’t yo’,—Eigh, Jack?”
“See dat nigh critter cock his eye now, and wag dat off ear,” continued Dan, winking at Captain Doc, and giggling and wriggling as before.
“Don’t like Mars’ Tom, do yo’, Jack?” again addressing the intelligent donkey, which not only wagged his off ear, but shook his head in a most decided manner, to the great amusement of his owner.
“Oh, Dan, you musn’t mind the antics of that boy Tom,” said a voice behind him; whereupon Dan wriggled and jumped, and whirled about, and bowed himself double, and made grimaces, and giggled and wriggled, and danced a jig; and finally, with another low bow and long scrape of his right foot, he shook hands with the speaker, who was no other than our friend Marmor. “Tom is only just home from school, you know, and of course the man who knew more before he was born than could ever be cudgeled into that knowledge-box of hissen, is nothing to him! Let him alone, and let him swell though, just as big as he can, he’ll bust the quicker, and we’ll find out the quicker how big he really is when the vacuum is gone, and what is left is packed down solid.”
“‘Pears like dis yere young Tom cat tinks he smell a mice, or a niggah he’s huntin,” said Dan, “an’ he’s gwoine fo’ to chaw ’im up mighty quick!” (suiting his gesture to his words by a long sniff, and a quick motion of his jaws.)
Dan’s buffoonery was irresistible, and the half dozen persons who had gathered at the captain’s door manifested their appreciation by hilarious applause.
“‘Pears like I couldn’t leave such ’stinguished comp’ny, nohow,” he continued, “but dey is a panoramia fo’ my vishum which am decomrated by hoe cakes an’ hominy, an’ lasses an’ bacon, an’ sich tings;” and with his hands upon his empty stomach, Dan bowed very low and obsequiously, and mounting his “ambulancer,” gathered up the ragged ends of his raw-hide ribbons, touched Jack with his long green stick, and rattled away, while Captain Doc shouted after him, “Two o’clock, and no tipsy men on parade.”
The queer little turnout, which would have been a spectacle in any part of the northern states, though common enough in the southern, crept slowly up the steep hill in the rear of the village, where buildings of curious and indescribable styles were scattered without order or taste, and few indications of thrift. Stopping on the outskirts of the town, and before a small cabin built of one thickness of rough boards, the vertical cracks between which would nearly receive the fingers of an adult, and the windows of which, without sash or glazing, were closed only by clumsy wooden shutters—the usual style of cabin inhabited by the southern negro—Dan leaped from his vehicle, and entering, sniffed and looked about searchingly, till a tall, angular mulatto woman entered from the back door with an armful of wood.
“Any suppah yet, Mira?”
“No, sah. Yo’ suppah ha’n’t ready yit, but I’s cookin’ it. I’s mighty tired. I’s done done all dat whole big cotton field.”