“Yur a dod-rotted good sample o’ a nigger, Plute; an the nix occashun I shows about hyur, I’ll fetch you a ’possum—wi’ the meat on it as tender as a two-year old chicken. Thet’s what I’m boun’ ter do.”
After delivering himself of this promise, Zeb commenced ascending the stone stairway; not by single steps, but by two, and sometimes three, at a stride.
He was soon upon the housetop; where he was once more welcomed by the young mistress of the mansion.
Her excited manner, and the eagerness with which she conducted him to a remote part of the azotea, told the astute hunter, that he had been summoned thither for some other purpose than enjoying the prospect.
“Tell me, Mr Stump!” said she, as she clutched the sleeve of the blanket coat in her delicate fingers, and looked inquiringly into Zeb’s grey eye—“You must know all. How is he? Are his wounds of a dangerous nature?”
“If you refar to Mister Cal-hoon—”
“No—no—no. I know all about him. It’s not of Mr Calhoun I’m speaking.”
“Wall, Miss Lewasse; thur air only one other as I know of in these parts thet hev got wownds; an thet air’s Maurice the mowstanger. Mout it be thet ere individooal yur inquirin’ abeout?”
“It is—it is! You know I cannot be indifferent to his welfare, notwithstanding the misfortune of his having quarrelled with my cousin. You are aware that he rescued me—twice I may say—from imminent peril. Tell me—is he in great danger?”
Such earnestness could no longer be trifled with. Zeb without further parley, made reply:—