“Massr no me speak ’bout you, sa; I no hear him say nuffin.”
“The overseer, then?”
“Ya, sa, de obaseeah.”
“What did he tell you to do? Tell me as near as you can; and I may make you a present one of these days.”
“Gorry, massr buckra! I you tell all he say, ’zactly as he say um. ‘Quashie,’ say he, ‘Quashie,’ he say, ‘you go down board de big ship; you see dat ere young buckra’—dat war yourseff, sa—‘you fotch ’im up to de ox-waggon, you fotch ’im baggage, too; you mount ’im on Coco,’—da’s de pony’s name—‘and den you fetch him home to my house.’ Da’s all he say—ebbery word.”
“To his house? Mount Welcome, you mean!”
“No, young buckra gemman—to de obaseeah own house. And now we jess got to da road dat lead dar. Dis way, sa! dis way!”
The darkey pointed to a bye-road, that, forking off from the main avenue, ran in the direction of the ridge, where it entered into a tract of thick woods.
Herbert checked the pony to a halt, and sat gazing at his guide, in mute surprise.
“Dis way, sa!” repeated the boy. “Yonna’s de obaseeah’s house. You see wha da smoke rise, jess ober de big trees?”