“Ain’t you ’shamed yourself, you good-for-nothin’ little nigger, after all ole Marse an’ Miss Betty done for you, ter sneak in the settin’-room, an’ be ruinin’ ole Marse’ fiddle-strings, an’ meddlin’ with Miss Betty’s harp? I tell you what, boys has got ter git switched sometimes, an’ I’m a-gwine ter give you a switchin’ this day you will remember to the Day of Judgment.”
With this awful preamble, Aunt Tulip raised the switch, and Kettle, before a single stroke had descended, burst into howls. Aunt Tulip’s hand faltered.
“I declar, Miss Betty,” she said apologetically, pausing with the uplifted switch in the air, “it’s mighty hard ter give a switchin’ ter a chile as ain’t got no father nor mother; but Kettle cert’n’y ought to have it, an’ I think Cesar kin give it ter him better’n I kin.”
With this, the switch was handed over to Uncle Cesar. Kettle redoubled his yells. The prospect of the switch in Uncle Cesar’s stalwart arm was indeed terrifying. Uncle Cesar, to make the ceremony more impressive, took off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and lifted the switch on high. But it did not come down on Kettle’s back when it was expected. Uncle Cesar’s hand began to tremble.
“It’s mighty cur’rus, Miss Betty,” said Uncle Cesar, hesitating and rubbing his arm, “but I kinder got my hand out with switchin’ boys, an’ the rheumatiz is right bad this mornin’. Anyhow, I reckon I better put off this heah switchin’ ’twell the rheumatiz gits better.”
“It can’t be put off, Uncle Cesar,” answered Betty decisively. “The truth is, Aunt Tulip and you are squarmish about giving Kettle what he deserves. Now, I believe in discipline, and if you promise a boy a switching, you ought to give it to him. So give me the switch.”
The instrument of torture was duly handed over to Betty. Kettle suddenly stopped his wailings, and his mouth came wide open as if it were on hinges. Betty, too, by way of nerving herself for the task, began to give Kettle a lecture.
“Now, Kettle,” she said sternly, “your conduct has been perfectly outrageous. You were told not to touch my harp or the violins.”
“I know it, Miss Betty,” whimpered Kettle, his arm to his eyes, “but them fiddles, they jes’ seem a-callin’ an’ a-callin’ ter me fur ter come an’ play on ’em an’ that air harp—Miss Betty, ef I could play a chune on one of them fiddles, I’d ruther do it—I’d ruther do it——”
Kettle’s imagery failed him in finding a simile strong enough.