“Well, Jake?” I responded, without withdrawing my eyes from the page.
“Ise wanted all da mornin to git you ’lone by yarself; Ise want to hab a leetle bit ob a convasayshun, Massr George.”
The solemn tone, so unusual in the voice of Jake, awoke my attention. Mechanically closing the book, I looked up in his face: it was solemn as his speech.
“A conversation with me, Jake?”
“Ye, massr—dat am if you isn’t ingage?”
“Oh, by no means, Jake. Go on: let me hear what you have to say.”
“Poor fellow!” thought I—“he has his sorrows too. Some complaint about Viola. The wicked coquette is torturing him with jealousy; but what can I do? I cannot make her love him—no. ‘One man may lead a horse to the water, but forty can’t make him drink.’ No; the little jade will act as she pleases in spite of any remonstrance on my part. Well, Jake?”
“Wa, Massr George, I doant meself like to intafere in tha ’fairs ob da family—daat I doant; but ye see, massr, things am a gwine all wrong—all wrong, by golly!”
“In what respect?”
“Ah, massr, dat young lady—dat young lady.”