“An’ nobody ain’ carin’ to see him, either; if dey feels like I feel ’bout ole Plunkum,” she answered disdainfully.
“Go ’long, gal, wid yo’ reckless talk,” said Susan. “Leave Plunkum come back home tomorrow, an’ nobody but you goin’ turn out full fo’ce to give him welcome; an’ you know it good.”
“Who, me, Sis’ Susan? It be only one way you see me turn out to give Plunkum welcome. An’ dat’ll be to cut his head in fo’ diffunt ways,—shawt an’ long, an’ wide an’ deep. An’ cut de palms his feets in de bargain, so he can’t run no mo’. Yas Ma’am.”
“Gawd knows, Nookie,” said Tom, speaking slowly, “for a young ooman w’at bin well-raise’, you sho kin make a whole lot o’ nigger noise.”
“Anybody come to be a nigger, Mr. Tom, w’en dey git mixed up wid a nasty Pharisee like ole Plunkum ... layin’ up in my house for seven long mont’s aft’ he done marry me lawful; livin’ on my good bounty, an’ ain’ done a lick o’ work, an’ ain’ thinkin’ ’bout doin’ none; lookin’ for me to feed an’ suppoat him; an’ raisin’ a roocus w’en I refuse to leave him put on de w’ite folks clo’se I was washin’, so’s he could go ’long wid de Odd Fellows purrade an’ strut like Pompey!... Who?... You know yo’self, Mr. Tom, Gawd ain’ goin’ be patient wid a rogue like dat.”
“An’ it tuck you seven long mont’s to make up yo’ min’ ’bout Plunkum ways?” Scilla asked, quizzically.
“I was lookin’ ove’ my min’ for a long time ’bout w’at I was goin’ do,” she answered. “But my passion struck me all at once. So one evenin’, w’en Plunkum had plague’ me so till I des couldn’ stan’ it no longer; I up wid my potato-stomper was stannin’ on de pot shelf, an’ I played de thing all up an’ down de back his head, till he vomit.... Den w’en I seen him look so mizzabul an’ downcas’; I went an’ fix him some sedlitz powders to quiet him.
“I fix de blue paper one in a cup o’ water firs’, an’ made him drink it; den I fix de w’ite paper one in de cup, an’ made him drink dat.... An’ people, you ain’ goin’ b’lieve me w’en I tell you; ’twasn’ no time befo’ dey had to ride him to de hospital in de groc’ry wagon, de tawment inside him was carryin’ him such a road! Yas Lawd.... Dat nigger was fit to explode any minute. An’ he sho did holler an’ cry.
“W’at dey did to him yonder, I ain’ never hyeah’d tell. But he mus’ bin make up his min’ to go some yuther direction; ’cause Plunkum ain’ never come back to my house.”