“Ah! de boss. Yes, thar war a bossy ’mong dem; I ’pose he muss ’a been, lease he order all de oders ’bout.”
“Kin ye discribe what he war like? How war he dressed? What sort o’ duds had he on him?”
“Easy ’nuf dat, massa. He drest moas like de ress ob dem—only on de top ob him head dar wa’ a big spread ob feather, shinin’ like de tail o’ a peacock.”
“The Yellur Chief!” exclaimed the questioner, on hearing the description.
“No, massa. He no yella’. He wa’ painted red. Dar wa’ some yella’ stripe; but mos’ ob him wa’ a bright red colour—redder dan blood.”
“Never mind that, nigger: you don’t know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. What did ye see him do?”
“Seed him try to ’top de shootin’ and killin’.”
“Stop the shootin’ and killin’! You saw him tryin’ to do thet? Air ye sure o’t, boy?”
“No, massa, I ain’t shoo’. I thort he wa’ doin’ so. I wa’n’t shoo’. I wa’ ’feard dey ud go on wif de killin’, an’ dat’s why I ’tole ’way from de place, an’ run out dis way.”
“Eft be Yellur Chief, odd ’bout his tryin’ to stop the killin’. ’Tain’t his way.” This remark was to O’Neil, who stood chafing at the delay.