“Now, Miss Sylvy,� he began loftily, “of co’se Mr. Skelton an’ me is got sumpin’ else ter do den to go circumventin’ roun’ dese heah flowers an’ truck. We has got our gre’t work on philosophy ter write. Fifteen thousan’ books in dat ar libery, Miss Sylvy; fifteen thousan’, ez sho’ as I’se Mr. Skelton’s vally—not dat I breshes his clo’s none, nor black he boots; Jake, he do dat kin’ o’ demeanin’ work.�
“But I see you are the butler, Bob,� remarked Sylvia, thinking this an astute bit of flattery.
“You is mistaken, miss,� answered Bob with dignified tartness. “I is de major domo; Sam Trotter, he de butler. You see, I’se had de adwantages o’ trabel, an’ I kin read an’ wrote, an’ play de fluke, an’ dem ’complishments is wasted in a butler; but dey is mighty fitten for a major domo, who is quite a ’nother kind o’ pusson, Miss Sylvy.�
“So I perceive,� answered Sylvia hastily, and exchanging looks with Lewis.
“Now, when Mr. Skelton was a-tellin’ you dem inwentions o’ his’n ’bout Mr. Byrum an’ de Duke o’ Scott an’ Lord Gayety, he didn’ tole you dat I wuz ’long too, an’ I done play de fluke for ev’y one of ’em; an’ dey ev’y one ax Mr. Skelton what he would tooken for me—’kase dey doan’ hab nuttin’ but white niggers ober d’yar, an’ dey all mighty glad ter git er cullud gent’man ter wait on ’em. But Mr. Skelton he tole de Duke o’ Scott, ‘I wouldn’t part wid Bob Skinny for de whole o’ yo’ ole Rabbitsford.’ Dis heah is de truf I’se tellin’ you, Miss Sylvy.�
“Of course, Bob,� remarked Sylvia affably.
“Bob,� said Lewis gravely, “tell Miss Sylvia about the Duke of Wellington.�
“Hi, little marse, Miss Sylvy she doan’ want ter hear nuttin’ ’bout de Duke o’ Wellington,� replied Bob, immensely flattered, but desiring to be pressed.
“Indeed I do, Bob!� cried Sylvia, seating herself in a rustic settee with Lewis, while Bob struck an attitude before her.
“Well, Miss Sylvy, I tell you I doan’ think much o’ de duke. He what I call po’ white trash, ’kase he ain’ got no manners; an’ I done see de worl’, an’ I alius knowed a gent’man when I see him. I wuz walkin’ long in de park in London one day—dey got a gre’t place wid trees an’ grass an’ flowers, an’ dey calls it a park—an’ I see de duke a-comin’ ’long, walkin’ by hisse’f. He was monst’ous homely, an’ he clo’s warn’t no better’n mine, an’ I tho’t I’d spoke ter him; so I jes’ step up, an’ I say, ‘Sarvant, sah, I’se Mr. Skelton’s vally, from Deerchase, Virginny, de bigges’ plantation an’ de mo’es’ niggers—’ ‘Git out o’ my way, feller!’ says de duke, wavin’ he stick at me. I wuz gwine tell him all ’bout de Skeltons, an’ pay him my ’spects, but arter dat I didn’ tuk no mo’ notice on’ him, dough I see him ev’y day stramanadin’ in de park. I reckon, ef he had done listen when I say I wuz Mr. Skelton’s vally, he’d er been ez perlite ez a dancin’ master, ’kase he mus’ ’a’ knowed all ’bout Mr. Skelton an’ Deerchase. But, Miss Sylvy, I doan’ keer much ’bout dem gre’t folks ober d’yar. You dunno ef dey is de fust families or not. An’ ez for dem white niggers dat waits on ’em, I wouldn’ demean myse’f to ’sociate wid ’em under no desideratum.�