“Git along wid your rubbish!” retorted Susan as they crossed the street. It was evident, however, that she was much pleased with her gallant spouse.
“Now, den dis is what I calls hebben upon art’,” said Quashy, sitting down with a contented sigh. “To be here a-frizzlin’ in de sunshine wid Sooz’n a-smilin’ at me like a black angel. D’you know, Sooz’n,” he added, with a serious look, “it gibs me a good deal o’ trouble to beliebe it.”
“Yes, it am awrful nice,” responded Susan, gravely, “but we’s not come here to make lub, Quashy, so hol’ your tongue, an’ I’ll tell you what I heared.”
She cleared her throat here, and looked earnest. Having thus reduced her husband to a state of the most solemn expectancy, she began in a low voice—
“You know, Quashy, dat poor Massa Lawrie hab found nuffin ob his fadder’s fortin.”
“Yes, I knows dat, Sooz’n,” replied her husband, with an expression of the deepest woe.
“Well, den—”
“No, Sooz’n, it’s ill den.”
“Quashy!” (remonstratively.)
“Yes?” (interrogatively.)