“Sometimes Potter, but mostly it’s Shekels.”
“Now come! who can find fault with such pretty make-believe as that?”
“But it ain’t make-believe, Marse Tom. She does send them.”
“Yes, I don’t doubt that part of it.”
“Do you doubt they get them, sir?”
“Certainly. Don’t you?”
“No, sir. Animals talk to one another. I know it perfectly well, Marse Tom, and I ain’t saying it by guess.”
“What a curious superstition!”
“It ain’t a superstition, Marse Tom. Look at that Shekels—look at him, now. Is he listening, or ain’t he? Now you see! he’s turned his head away. It’s because he was caught—caught in the act. I’ll ask you—could a Christian look any more ashamed than what he looks now?—lay down! You see? he was going to sneak out. Don’t tell me, Marse Tom! If animals don’t talk, I miss my guess. And Shekels is the worst. He goes and tells the animals everything that happens in the officers’ quarters; and if he’s short of facts, he invents them. He hasn’t any more principle than a blue jay; and as for morals, he’s empty. Look at him now; look at him grovel. He knows what I am saying, and he knows it’s the truth. You see, yourself, that he can feel shame; it’s the only virtue he’s got. It’s wonderful how they find out everything that’s going on—the animals. They—”
“Do you really believe they do, Dorcas?”