A cold chill went to Tom’s heart, he didn’t know why; for he did not reflect that such words, from such an incongruous source, and so solemnly delivered, could not easily fail of that effect. However, he did the natural thing: he replied with bluster and mockery:
“You’ll give me a chance—you! Perhaps I’d better get down on my knees now! But in case I don’t—just for argument’s sake—what’s going to happen, pray?”
“Dis is what is gwine to happen. I’s gwine as straight to yo’ uncle as I kin walk, en tell him every las’ thing I knows ’bout you.”
Tom’s cheek blenched, and she saw it. Disturbing thoughts began to chase each other through his head. “How can she know? And yet she must have found out—she looks it. I’ve had the will back only three months, and am already deep in debt again, and moving heaven and earth to save myself from exposure and destruction, with a reasonably fair show of getting the thing covered up if I’m let alone, and now this fiend has gone and found me out somehow or other. I wonder how much she knows? Oh, oh, oh, it’s enough to break a body’s heart! But I’ve got to humor her—there’s no other way.”
Then he worked up a rather sickly sample of a gay laugh and a hollow chipperness of manner, and said:
“Well, well, Roxy dear, old friends like you and me mustn’t quarrel. Here’s your dollar—now tell me what you know.”
He held out the wild-cat bill; she stood as she was, and made no movement. It was her turn to scorn persuasive foolery, now, and she did not waste it. She said, with a grim implacability in voice and manner which made Tom almost realize that even a former slave can remember for ten minutes insults and injuries returned for compliments and flatteries received, and can also enjoy taking revenge for them when the opportunity offers:
“What does I know? I’ll tell you what I knows. I knows enough to bu’st dat will to flinders—en more, mind you, more!”
Tom was aghast.
“More?” he said. “What do you call more? Where’s there any room for more?”