“Who dat drivin’ dem mules, Marse Isaiah?” he asked.
“I couldn’t tell you even if you were sober,” said I. “The lead-mule was hitched on the off-side, and the man that is driving rushed out of the woods, fixed her right, and since then we have been making good time.”
“Is he a sho’ ’nuff w’ite man, Marse Isaiah?” asked Jake.
“Well, he looks like he is,” said I; “but I’m not certain about that.”
With that Jake crawled to the front of the wagon, and looked over at the driver. After a while he came crawling back.
“Tell me what you saw,” said I.
“Well, sir,” said he, “I dunner whe’er dat man’s a w’ite man or not, but he’s a-settin’ sideways on dat saddle-mule, en every time he chirps, dat lead-mule know what he talkin’ about. Yasser. She do dat. Did you say he come outen de woods?”
“I don’t know where he came from,” said I. “He’s there, and he’s driving the mules.”
“Yasser. Dat’s so. He’s dar sho’, kaze I seed ’im wid my own eyes. He look like he made outen flesh en blood, en yit he mought be a ha’nt; dey ain’t no tellin’. Dem dar mules is gwine on mos’ too slick fer ter suit me.”