“Mass Woodley, you want know who kill Mass Charl Clancy?”
“Why, Bill, that’s the very thing we’re all talkin’ ’bout, an’ tryin’ to find out. In coorse we want to know. But who’s to tell us?”
“Dis nigger do dat.”
“Air ye in airnest, Bill?”
“So much in earness I ha’n’t got no chance get sleep, till I make clean bress ob de seecret. De ole ooman neider. No, Mass Woodley, Phoebe she no let me ress till I do dat same. She say it am de duty ob a Christyun man, an’, as ye know, we boaf b’long to de Methodies. Darfore, I now tell ye, de man who kill Charl Clancy was my own massr—de young un—Dick.”
“Bill! are you sure o’ what ye say?”
“So shoo I kin swa it as de troof, de whole troof, an’ nuffin but de troof.”
“But what proof have ye?”
“Proof! I moas seed it wif ma own eyes. If I didn’t see, I heerd it wif ma ears.”
“By the ’tarnal! this looks like clar evydince at last. Tell me, Bill, o’ all that you seed an’ what you heern?”