"Yes, Mars."
"What are you doing with that gun?"
"Mars tole me I might go out coonin'."
I knew negroes, as a rule, were not to be trusted with a gun for such purposes; this, together with the color of his skin, which was as white as ours, caused us to distrust his story, and we began to quiz him:
"See here. You don't look like a nigger. You're a white man. What do you want to deceive us for?"
"I'se not tryin' to deceib you. I'se tole you uns the truf, shore."
"Whose gun is that?"
"Dat gun? Dat—dat's Mars Jackson's gun."
"How long is it since your master trusted you with a gun? That story won't hold water."