“I’ll set here, suh, twel Hamp gits back wid de carriage, an’ den I’ll see ’bout gittin’ dinner, an’ he better make ’as’e, too, bekaze I ain’t got no time ter set here an’ lis’n at dat baby, whiles he projickin’ out dar at dem grounds. I kin wait, suh, but I can’t wait all day.”
“Major Perdue said that Mr. Conant’s shoulder was very painful last night,” I suggested.
“Dat what Miss Vallie say, suh. She say dey wuz up an’ down wid ’im mighty nigh all night long. I don’t blame um, suh, but, dey ain’t no use talkin’, grown folks kin be waited on twey dey er sp’iled same ez chilluns. I’d cut my tongue out, suh, ’fo’ I’d say it ter anybody else, but I done got ter b’lievin’ dat Marse Paul Conant grunts an’ groans many a time des bekaze he wants somebody fer ter worry wid ’im an’ honey ’im up. I may be doin’ ’im wrong, suh, but I done get a sneakin’ notion dat he’s one er deze yer kinder men-folks what likes to be much’d an’ petted. An’ dey’ll do it, suh—dey’ll much ’im night er day, hot er col’. Des let ’im say, ‘Oh, my shoulder!’ an’ bofe un um’ll try ter outdo de udder in takin’ keer un ’im.
“Oh, my shoulder!”
“Marse Tumlin is got mo’ ways like a ’oman dan any man I ever is laid eyes on. It’s de Lord’s trufe. He ain’t fussy like de common run er wimmen, but his han’ is des ez light an’ his heart des ez saft ez any ’oman dat ever breave de breff er life, let er breave whence an’ whar she mought. I look at ’im sometimes, an’ I des nat’ally tease myse’f ter know how dat man kin stan’ up an’ shoot anybody like I done see ’im do. Hit’s de same way wid Marse Bolivar Blasengame—you know him, I spec. Dey married sisters, suh, an’ dey allers been monstus thick. Dem two wuz big dogs ’roun’ here, suh, ’fo’ de war. Ef you ain’t never seed um in dem days, you never is ter know how folks looked up to um an’ give way to um.
“But dey ain’t put on no airs, suh. Dey des do like de quality all do. ’Tain’t money dat makes de quality; hit’s dat ar kinder breedin’ what’ll make de finest folks stop an’ shake han’s wid a nigger des ez quick ez dey would wid de king er Rooshy—ef dey got any king dar. Long ’fo’ de turmoil, suh, endurin’ er de farmin’ days, ’twuz des dat-a-way. When he ’uz at his richest, Marse Tumlin never did pass a nigger on de road, no matter how lonesome an’ ragged he look, widout stoppin’ an’ axin’ who he b’long ter, an’ what he name, an’ how he gittin’ on. An’ he allers gi’ um sump’n, maybe a piece er terbacker, er maybe a thrip. I know, suh; I done hear my color talk, an’ dey talks it down ter dis ve’y day. Dey ain’t never been a time in dat man’s life when he ain’t think mo’ er somebody else dan what he think er hisse’f. Dat’s what I call de quality, suh. ’Tain’t money; ’tain’t land; ’tain’t fine duds; ’tain’t nothin’ ’tall like dat. I tell you, suh, dem what want ter be de quality is got ter have a long line er big graveyards behime um, an’ dem graveyards is got ter be full er folks what use ter know how ter treat yuther folks. Well, suh, Marse Tumlin is got um behime him, an’ dey retch fum here ter Ferginny an’ furder. An’ on dat account, he ain’t ’shame’ to show nobody dat he love um, an’ he ain’t afear’d ter tell nobody dat he hate um.
“I bet you right now, suh, ef you wuz ter ax Miss Vallie ef she ever see ’er pa mad, she’d look at you like she ain’t know what you talkin’ ’bout. Fum de time she has been born, suh, down ter dis ve’y day, she ain’t never hear a cross word come from his mouf. She’s seed ’im frownin’ an’ she’s seed ’im frettin’, but she ain’t never hear no cross word. An’ dat what make I say what I does. ’Tain’t nobody but de quality dat kin show der breedin’ right in der own fambly.”
“Why, I’ve heard that the Major has something of a temper,” I remarked.
