His dress was a curious warp of rags—woven, as it were—upon a still more ragged woof.
They were held together more by sympathy than cohesion.
In his right hand was a stout gnarled stick, with which he assisted himself in his frog-like progress.
At sight of young Rody, the huge mouth of this uncouth creature seemed to open from ear to ear.
“Ha, ha! Who, whoo! Gor bress me, if it ain’t Massa Warren hisself dat I see! My stars, massa, but dis ole man am glad to see ye, dat he is!”
Such was his salutation.
The young man came to a stop, and surveyed the negro with a smile.
“Well, Crookleg, what do you want with me, you old fiend?”
“Ha, ha! Ho, ho! Bress him, what a brave young gen’lman it is! How han’som’—jess like a pictur’. What do the ole fien’ want? Why he want a good deal, massa, good deal.”
“Are you out of work again?”