“I have made you a fair offer, and am willing to do what is right; and, as I said before, I intend to stay here till to-night, whether you are willing or not.”
“Yer kin put up your pistol; I ain’t afeerd on it.”
“I have no desire to use the pistol to your injury, and shall not do so unless in self-defense. You know that I am a fugitive.”
“A nigger, by gracious!” exclaimed the farmer, whose vocabulary was very limited, and who had no idea that the word “fugitive” could mean anything but a runaway negro.
“You know that the soldiers are after me, and it will not be safe for me to leave this house before dark. I’m not a nigger; and it makes no difference to you what I am.”
“You are a dirty Yankee; and I’d rather hev a hundred niggers in my house than one Yankee.”
“That’s a matter of taste. If you are fond of negroes, I don’t interfere with you for that.”
“Shet up!” snarled the farmer, highly displeased with the answer of the fugitive. “I won’t hev a Yankee in my house a single hour.”
“Very well; we won’t argue the matter. You can do anything you please about it,” replied Somers with perfect indifference as he seated himself in a chair.
“Then yer kin leave.”