"He's a durned sight smarter man than we'uns thought he wuz when we begun the war," admitted the Sergeant. "But we'uns 'll wollop him yit, in spite of his smartness."
"We kin tell more about that a few months later," returned Shorty. "It's never safe to count the game until the last hand's played. We hain't fairly begun to lead trumps yit. But what are you fellers fighting for, anyhow?"
"We'uns foutin' for our liberty, and t' keep yo'uns from takin' our niggers away."
The reply that came to Shorty's lips was that they seemed to be losing a great deal of liberty rather than gaining it, but he checked this by the fear that it would be construed as an ungentlemanly boast of their capture. He said, instead:
"I never knowed as any of us wanted your niggers—me particularly. I wouldn't take a wagon load of 'em, even if the freight was prepaid. But, let me ask you, Sergeant, how many niggers do you own?"
"I don't own nary one."
"Does your father own any?"
"No, he don't."
"Does your mother, or brothers, uncles, aunts, or cousins own any?" persisted Shorty.
"No, thar ain't nary one owned in the hull family."