“Good chicken! Good bread! Good bacon!” added Tom. “Are the folks at home, Blackee?”
“No, sar; nobody but de women folks, sar. Who’s you, sar?”
“It don’t make much difference who I am. Where’s your master?”
“Gone to Richmond, sar. He’s member ob Congress.”
“Then he’s in poor business, Blackee,” said Tom, as he took out his handkerchief, and proceeded to transfer the remnants of his supper to its capacious folds.
“Better luff dem tings alone, sar.”
But Tom refused to “luff dem alone,” and when he had placed them on the handkerchief, he made a bundle of them.
“Golly, sar! I’ll tell my missus what’s gwine on down here,” added the servant, as he moved towards the door.
“See here, Blackee,” interposed Tom, pointing his pistol at the negro; “if you move, I’ll put one of these balls through your skull.”
“De Lud sabe us, massa! Don’t shoot dis nigger, massa.”