“What can we do, Snowball?”
“Nuffin. Can’t do a bressed thing tell de missus ready ter let us out. ’Tain’t so bad when yer gits usen ter de dahk.”
“Does your back hurt much?”
“Not now, honey. It did huht awful when dey pouhed de brine on tho’.”
“The brine! Not salt water, Snowball?”
“Yes’m. It did huht shore nuff when dey pouhed dat on. Dey does it kase dey think de whip won’t make no scahs when dey heal. But it do huht awful.”
This new horror held Jeanne silent, and her tears fell fast. A fierce indignation foreign to her usually gentle nature shook her from head to foot. “And father used to say that abolitionists were extremists,” she thought. “Oh, if ever I get home again I’ll cry out on the streets against slavery.”
“Is yer cryin’, lill’ missy?” exclaimed Snowball, as the warm drops fell upon her hands. “Done yer do it. It done mattah ’bout a pore nigga laik me. Heah you is tiahed mos’ ter def, I reckon. Can’t yer sleep?”
“I’ll try, Snowball,” and Jeanne crept beside the girl on her straw. “I am tired. I almost wish I could die.”
“Done yer be downhahted, missy. Dey’ll take me outen heah soon. Jes’ as soon as ma back gits well, kase dey can’t ’ford ter lose a val’able nigga laik me, and ef dey doesn’t take you outen dis ’fore den I’ll run away ter de Gin’ral. Heaps of de cullah folks go ter him.”