“I wish you’s a little bigger, but de Lord will hol’ you up. Paul, you listen. When yo’ paw comes home from the sto’ an’ we’s all gone to bed and got to sleep—you hearin’, Paul?”
“Yes’m.”
“You get up still’s a mouse, an’ you go git dat hoe yo’ paw brought home, an’ don’t you make no noise takin’ it down, an’ you kerry dat hoe ober to Mr. Benson’s; an’ you take de hoe what’s hangin’ dar—dat’s our hoe, Paul, dat yo’ paw left dar by ’stake—you take dat hoe an’ bring it in the woodshed, an’ don’t you nebber tell yo’ paw nothin’ ’bout it.”
The first sun rays were shining in at the window through the morning-glories, the early breakfast was smoking on the table, the six young Johnsons were struggling down in various stages of sleepiness, Aunt Lucy was bending over the stove and ’Liah washing at the sink, when a loud knock was heard at the kitchen door, which, being open, disclosed Mr. Benson. By his side stood the village constable. In his hand was an old and much battered hoe. ’Liah saw the hoe and his upper jaw fell. Aunt Lucy’s gaze also was riveted on it.
“Goliah Johnson,” said the constable, “you’re my prisoner. You stole Mr. Benson’s hoe.”
“’Fore de Lord, Mr. Benson, I ain’t got yo’ hoe. What you doin’ wid mine?”
“You needn’t pretend that you left your old hoe in my barn yesterday by mistake, ’Liah Johnson,” burst in Mr. Benson, “as if you couldn’t tell this old thing from my hoe. What have you got to say for yourself?”
“You may search dis place, Mr. Benson, from top to bottom an’ side to side, an’ you won’t find no stiver of yo’ old hoe. How you got mine I ’clare I give up, but you kin see fo’ yourself. Now, here’s where I keeps my hoe,” and ’Liah swung open the woodshed door.
There hung Mr. Benson’s new hoe.