"Dat is none to speak of."
"Why, Uncle Simon, who ever heard tell of a man being cured of his aches and pains at your age?"
"I ain' so powahful ol', Mas', I ain' so powahful ol'."
"You're not so powerful old! Why, Uncle Simon, what's taken hold of you? You're eighty if a day."
"Sh—sh, talk dat kin' o' low, Mastah, don' 'spress yo'se'f so loud!" and the old man looked fearfully around as if he feared some one might hear the words.
The master fell back in his seat in utter surprise.
"And, why, I should like to know, may I not speak of your age aloud?"
Uncle Simon showed his two or three remaining teeth in a broad grin as he answered:
"Well, Mastah, I's 'fraid ol' man Time mought hyeah you an' t'ink he done let me run too long." He chuckled, and his master joined him with a merry peal of laughter.
"All right, then, Simon," he said, "I'll try not to give away any of your secrets to old man Time. But isn't your age written down somewhere?"