“What the matter with yo’, anyway, a pitchen’ yo’self ’gainst the wheel that-a-way?” he demanded. “Yo’ ain’t boun’ and sot to get run over, are yo’?”
Some of the other men laughed, but Nelse gripped Pluto’s hand as though in need of the support.
“Fo’ God!––thought I seen a ghost, that minute,” he gasped, as the other men started after the dogs again; “the ghost of a woman what ain’t dead yet––the ghost o’ Retta.”
“Yo’ plum crazy, ole man,” said Pluto, disdainfully. “How the ghost o’ that Marg’ret get in my mistress carriage, I like to know?––’special as the woman’s as live as any of us. Yo’ gone ’stracted with all the talken’ ’bout that Marg’ret’s story. Now, I ain’t seen a mite of likeness to her in that carriage at all, I ain’t.”
“That ’cause yo’ ain’t nevah see Retta as she used to be. I tell yo’ if her chile Rhoda alive at all I go bail she the very likeness o’ that woman. My king! but she done scairt me.”
“Don’t yo’ go talk such notions to any other person,” suggested Pluto. “Yo’ get yo’self in trouble when yo’ go tellen’ 181 how Mrs. McVeigh’s company look like a nigger, yo’ mind! Why, that lady the highest kind o’ quality––most a queen where she comes from. How yo’ reckon Mrs. McVeigh like to hear such talk?”
“Might’nt a’ been the highest quality one I meant,” protested Nelse, strong in the impression he had received; “it wa’ the othah one, then––the one in a black dress.”
All three occupants of the carriage had worn dark clothes, in the night all had looked black. Nelse had only observed one closely; but Pluto saw a chance of frightening the old man out of a subject of gossip so derogatory to the dignity of the Terrace folks, and he did not hesitate to use it.
“What other one yo’ talken’ ’bout?” he demanded, stopping short, “my Mistress McVeigh?”
“Naw!––think me a bawn fool––you? I mean the otha one––the number three lady.”