“Oh, yes; and Aunt Chloe sees ghosts, and talks with goblins, to hear her tell the story; but that old humbug is just as much afraid of a mouse as––as I am.”
“Nelse is a free nigger,” explained Evilena, turning from the window after having motioned him to enter. “He was made free by his old master, Marmaduke Loring, and the old rascal––I mean Nelse, bought himself a wife, paid for her out of his jockey earnings, and when she proved a disappointment what do you think he did?”
Delaven could not get beyond a guess, as the subject of her discourse had just then appeared in the door.
He was a small, black man, quite old, but with a curious attempt at jauntiness, as he made his three bows with his one hand on his breast, the other holding his cane and a jockey cap of ancient fashion. It contrasted oddly with the swallow-tailed coat he wore, which had evidently been made for a much larger man; the sleeves came to his finger tips, and the tails touched his heels. The cloth of which it was made was very fine dark blue, with buttons of brass. His waistcoat of maroon brocade came half way to his knees. Warm as the day was he wore a broad tie of plaid silk arranged in a bow, above which a white muslin collar rose to his ears. He was evidently an ancient beau of the plantations in court dress.
“Yo’ servant, Miss Sajane, Miss Lena; yo’ servant, Mahstah,” he said with a bow to each. “I done come pay my respects to the family what got back. I’m powerful glad to heah they got safe ovah that ocean.”
“Oh, yes; you’re very thankful when you wait two whole weeks before you come around to say ‘howdy.’ Have you moved so far into the swamp you can’t even hear when the 143 family comes home? Sit down, you’re tired likely. Tell us all the news from your alligator pasture.”
“My king! Miss Lena, you jest the same tant’lizin’ little lady. Yo’ growen’ up don’t make you outgrow nothen’ but yo’ clothes. My ’gatah pasture? I show yo’ my little patch some o’ these days––show yo’ what kind ’gatahs pasture theah; why, why, I got ’nigh as many hogs as Mahs Matt has niggahs these days.”
“Yes, and he hasn’t so many as he did have,” remarked Mrs. Nesbitt, significantly. “You know anything about where Scip and Aleck are gone?”
“Who––me? Miss Sajane? You think I keep time on all the runaway boys these days? They too many for me. It sutenly do beat all how they scatter. Yo’ all hear tell how one o’ Cynthy’s boys done run away, too? Suah as I tell you––that second boy, Steve! Ole Mahs Masterson got him dogs out fo’ him––tain’t no use; nevah touched the track once. He’ll nevah stop runnen’ till he reach the Nawth an’ freeze to death. I alles tole Cynthy that Steve boy a bawn fool.”
“Do you mean your son Steve, or your grandson?” queried Mrs. Nesbitt.