"Your white folks, though? They don't hate him?"
"Doan' know, massa. Not so shoo 'bout dat."
"For instance, your own master. He's a great friend of Mr. Bradley—is he not?"
"Ah, young Mass' Henry. He fr'en's wif ebberybody. He no kill a dam 'skeeter, ef it bite um on de nose; though he do like kill de b'ar, an' de painter, an' dem odder big varmint. Daat's diff'rent. Den he 'cited by de chase an' barkin' ob de dogs. Whugh! Don't he go changed when he hear de gowl o' de hown's? He arn't like de same indiwiddle."
"I know he's very fond of hunting, and hunters too; but Mr. Bradley never hunts, and your master appears very fond of him?"
"Maybe he am—maybe he ain't."
After making this ambiguous rejoinder, Jake leant industriously to his oars, and for some time remained silent.
Feeling perfectly satisfied that no son of Africa could terminate a dialogue, with such an unsatisfactory conclusion, I waited for him to resume speech.
I had not long to wait. Scarce a dozen strokes of the oar.
"Dar may be a reason, sar, why Mass' Henry show fr'en'ship you 'peak 'bout. Dar am many kewrious thing down hyar in de Massissippy State; an' maybe dat 'ere am one ob dem."