"Dat he is, chile," replied the man; "he's cruel an' bad."
"Then don't you ever go back to him," said Dumps. "You stay right here an' me'n Diddie'll bring you ev'y-thing ter eat, an' have you fur our nigger."
The man laughed softly at that idea, but said he would stay there for the present, anyway; and the children, bidding him good-bye, and telling him they would be sure to bring him something to eat the next day, went back to their playmates at the ditch.
"Tot," said Diddie, "we gave all the picnic away to a poor old man who was very hungry; but you don't mind, do you? we'll go back to the house, and Mammy will give you just as many cakes as you want."
Tot was a little bit disappointed, for she had wanted to eat the picnic in the woods; but Diddie soon comforted her, and before they reached the house she was as merry and bright as any of them.
The next morning Diddie and Dumps were very much perplexed to know how to get off to the gin-house without being seen. There was no difficulty about obtaining the provisions; their mother always let them have whatever they wanted to have tea-parties with, and this was their excuse for procuring some slices of pie and cake, while Aunt Mary gave them bread and meat, and Douglass gave them some cold buttered biscuit with ham between.
They wrapped it all up carefully in a bundle, and then, watching their chances, they slipped off from Tot and the little darkies, as well as from Mammy, and carried it to their guest in the pick-room. He was truly glad to see them, and to get the nice breakfast they had brought; and the little girls, having now lost all fear of him, sat down on a pile of cotton to have a talk with him.
"Did you always b'long to Mr. Tight-fis' Smith?" asked Diddie.
"No, honey; he bought me fum de Powell 'state, an' I ain't b'longst ter him no mo'n 'boutn fo' years."
