The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Ann

by Joel Chandler Harris

“I hatter stop an’ pass de time er day.”

“I notice a crowd er men out dar, some settin’ an’ some stan’in’, but I run’d in, I did, an’ de young man what do de clerkin’, he foller me in an’ ax what I want. I say I want a dime’s wuff er bluin’, an’ fer ter please, suh, wrop it up des ez quick ez he kin. I tuck notice dat while he wuz gittin’ it out’n de box, he sorter stop like he lis’nin’ an’ den ag’in, whiles he had it in de scoop des ready fer ter drap it in de scales, he helt his han’ an’ wait. Den I know’d he wuz lis’nin’.

“Dat makes me lis’n, an’ den I hear Marse Tumlin talkin’, an’ time I hear ’im I know’d he wuz errytated. Twa’n’t bekaze he wuz talkin’ loud, suh, but ’twuz bekaze he wuz talkin’ level. When he talk loud, he feelin’ good. When he talk low, an’ one word soun’ same ez anudder, den somebody better git out’n his way. I lef’ de counter an’ step ter de do’ fer ter see what de matter wuz betwix’ um.

“Well, suh, dar wuz Marse Tumlin stan’in’ dar close ter Tom Perryman. Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘Maybe de law done ’pinted you my gyardeen. How you know I been swindled?’ Tom Perryman say, ‘Bekaze I hear you say he bought yo’ wil’ lan’ fer a little er nothin’. He’ll swindle you ef you trade wid ’im, an’ you done trade wid ’im.’ Marse Tumlin, ’low, ‘Is Paul Conant ever swindle you?’ Tom Perryman say, ‘No, he ain’t, an’ ef he wuz ter I’d give ’im a kickin’.’ Marse Tumlin ’low, ‘Well, you know you is a swindler, an’ nobody ain’t kick you. How come dat?’ Tom Perryman say, ‘Ef you say I’m a swindler, you’re a liar.’

“Well, suh, de man ain’t no sooner say dat dan bang! went Marse Tumlin’s pistol, an’ des ez it banged Marse Paul Conant run ’twix’ um, an’ de ball went right spang th’oo de collar-bone an’ sorter sideways th’oo de p’int er de shoulder-blade. Marse Tumlin drapt his pistol an’ cotch ’im ez he fell an’ knelt down dar by ’im, an’ all de time dat ar Tom Perryman wuz stan’in’ right over um wid his pistol in his han’. I squall out, I did, ‘Whyn’t some er you white men take dat man pistol ’way fum ’im? Don’t you see what he fixin’ ter do?’

“I run’d at ’im, an’ he sorter flung back wid his arm, an’ when he done dat somebody grab ’im fum behime. All dat time Marse Tumlin wuz axin’ Marse Paul Conant ef he hurt much. I hear ’im say, ‘I wouldn’t ’a’ done it fer de worl’, Conant—not fer de worl’.’ Den de doctor, he come up, an’ Marse Tumlin, he pester de man twel he hear ’im say, ‘Don’t worry, Major; dis boy’ll live ter be a older man dan you ever will.’ Den Marse Tumlin got his pistol an’ hunt up an’ down fer dat ar Tom Perryman, but he done gone. I seed ’im when he got on his hoss.

“Hunt up an’ down fer dat ar Tom Perryman.”

“I say to Marse Tumlin, ‘Ain’t you des ez well ter fetch Marse Paul Conant home whar we all kin take keer uv ’im?’ He ’low, ‘Dat’s a fack. Go home an’ tell yo’ Miss Vallie fer ter have de big room fixed up time we git dar wid ’im.’ I say, ‘Humph! I’ll fix it myse’f; I know’d I ain’t gwine ter let Miss Vallie do it.’