Polite of Jake to call Viola a young lady.
“You think she is deceiving you?”
“More dan me, Massr George—more dan me.”
“What a wicked girl! But perhaps, Jake, you only fancy these things? Have you had any proofs of her being unfaithful? Is there any one in particular who is now paying her attentions?”
“Yes, massr; berry partickler—nebber so partickler before—nebber.”
“A white man?”
“Gorramighty, Massr George!” exclaimed Jake in a tone of surprise; “you do talk kewrious: ob coorse it am a white man. No odder dan a white man dar shew ’tention to tha young lady.”
I could not help smiling. Considering Jake’s own complexion, he appeared to hold very exalted views of the unapproachableness of his charmer by those of her own race. I had once heard him boast that he was the “only man ob colour dat could shine thar.” It was a white man, then, who was making his misery.
“Who is he, Jake?” I inquired.
“Ah, massr, he am dat ar villain debbil, Arens Ringgol!”