"Yassam, dat's what I says, too," the little black maid eagerly agreed.
The cart belonged to a neighbor. It was driven by an old negro man.
"Let us ride, uncle!" Jennie called.
The old man pulled his reins quickly and laughed good-naturedly.
"Dat you shall, Honey. De name er Gawd, ter see Miss Jennie Barton settin' here in dis dirty road!"
He helped them climb to seats on the top of his load. Jennie found a berth between a flour barrel and mattress, while Mandy sat astride of an enormous bundle of bed clothes. Lucy scrambled up beside the driver.
The hot sun was pouring its fierce rays down without mercy. The old negro pulled a faded umbrella from beneath his seat, raised it, and handed it to Jennie with a grand bow.
"Thank you, uncle. You certainly are good to us!"
"Yassam—yassam—I wish I could do mo', honey chile. De ve'y idee er dem slue-footed Yankees er shellin' our town an' scerin' all our ladies ter death. Dey gwine ter pay fur all dis 'fore dey git through."