“En his name’s Tom Driscoll, en yo’ name’s Valet de Chambers, en you ain’t got no fambly name, beca’se niggers don’t have em!”
Tom sprang up and seized a billet of wood and raised it; but his mother only laughed at him, and said—
“Set down, you pup! Does you think you kin skyer me? It ain’t in you, nor de likes of you. I reckon you’d shoot me in de back, maybe, if you got a chance, for dat’s jist yo’ style—I knows you, throo en throo—but I don’t mind gitt’n killed, beca’se all dis is down in writin’ en it’s in safe hands, too, en de man dat’s got it knows whah to look for de right man when I gits killed. Oh, bless yo’ soul, if you puts yo’ mother up for as big a fool as you is, you’s pow’ful mistaken, I kin tell you! Now den, you set still en behave yo’self; en don’t you git up ag’in till I tell you!”
Tom fretted and chafed awhile in a whirlwind of disorganizing sensations and emotions, and finally said, with something like settled conviction—
“The whole thing is moonshine; now then, go ahead and do your worst; I’m done with you.”
Roxy made no answer. She took the lantern and started toward the door. Tom was in a cold panic in a moment.
“Come back, come back!” he wailed. “I didn’t mean it, Roxy; I take it all back, and I’ll never say it again! Please come back, Roxy!”
The woman stood a moment, then she said gravely:
“Dat’s one thing you’s got to stop, Valet de Chambers. You can’t call me Roxy, same as if you was my equal. Chillen don’t speak to dey mammies like dat. You’ll call me ma or mammy, dat’s what you’ll call me—leastways when dey ain’t nobody aroun’. Say it!”
It cost Tom a struggle, but he got it out.