“No, no,” said the Judge, smiling blandly, and waving his hand. “I prefer my own chair—the large rocker with the cushion, you know. It is more comfortable.”
Somewhat puzzled, Miss Sophie fetched a rocker. It had no cushion, but the Judge seemed not to miss it.
“Why, where are the servants?” he asked, his brows contracting a little. “I could have brought the chair.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Miss Sophie, “if I were to sit down and expect the negroes to wait on me, I’d have a good many disappointments during the day.”
“Yes,” said the Judge, “that is very true; very true. Where is Wesley?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Miss Sophie replied. “Is he a white man or a negro?”
“Wesley?” exclaimed the Judge. “Why, he’s a nigger; he’s my body-servant.”
“Isn’t this Judge Bascom?” Miss Sophie inquired, regarding him curiously.
“Yes, certainly, madam,” responded the Judge.