“Eight years ago cum corn plantin’ time, seh. He jes’ wen’ right off quick like, when de mis’ry hit ’im in de chist—numonya, de doctors call’d it. De Cun’l guv de place to a No’thern gent’man, whar was he ’ticular frien’, and I done stay on an’ look arfter hit. He nuvver been heah. Hi! listen to dis nigger! yo’s de gent’mans, mebbe.”
“I am his son,” said Croyden, amused.
“An’ yo owns Cla’endon, now, seh? What yo goin’ to do wid it?”
“I’m going to live here. Don’t you want to look after me?”
“Goin’ to live heah!—yo means it, seh?” the darky asked, in great amazement.
Croyden nodded. “Provided you will stay with me—and if you can find me a cook. Who cooks your meals?” 44
“Lawd, seh! find yo a cook. Didn’ Jos’phine cook fur de Cun’l all he life—Jos’phine, she my wife, seh—she jest gone nex’ do’, ’bout some’n.” He got up—“I calls her, seh.”
Croyden stopped him.
“Never mind,” he said; “she will be back, presently, and there is ample time. Any one live in these other cabins?”
“No, seh! we’s all wha’ left. De udder niggers done gone ’way, sence de Cun’l died, coz deah war nothin’ fur dem to do no mo’, an’ no buddy to pays dem.—Dyar is Jos’phine, now, sir, she be hear torectly. An’ heah comes Marster Dick, hisself.”