“Ha, ha, ain’t done a bressed stroke of work, massa, for more nor two week! Ain’t, ’pon dis old nigger’s solemn word! Ain’t had it, massa, to do. Poor Crookleg am most used up, sa, most used up.”
As if to prove his last assertion the hideous wretch cut a high caper into the air, and settled down again in a grotesque attitude.
Young Rody laughed heartily at this feat, slapped his riding-whip roughfully across the negro’s back, pitched a piece of silver to him, and passed on.
Whilst Crookleg stopped to pick up the coin he glanced after him under his arm, and saw, with some surprise, that the youth had paused at a few paces distance as if in thought.
After a time the latter faced round and came back along the road.
“By the way, Crookleg,” said he, “come up to the house, my sister may have something to give you.”
“Ha, ha! he, he! Miss Alice, bress her, so she may, massa! I’ll come, sartin; dis old nigger’s always glad to get what he can from Miss Alice.”
“And,” continued Rody, “ask for me when you come. I may find something for you to do that’ll help you along a little.”
Not staying to hear the voluble expressions of gratitude with which Crookleg overwhelmed him, Warren strode on, and was soon lost to sight.
The moment of his disappearance the darkey perpetrated another aerial leap, and then hobbled off in a direction opposite to that pursued by the governor’s son.