“Hol’ your tongue.”
“Yes, da’ling.”
“Well, den,” began Susan again, with serious emphasis, “don’ ’trupt me agin, or I’ll git angry. Well, massa, you know, is so honoribic dat he wouldn’t deceive nobody—not even a skeeter.”
“I knows dat, Sooz’n, not even a nigger.”
“Ob course not,” continued Susan; “so what does massa do, but goes off straight to Kurnel Muchbunks, an’ he says, says he, ‘Kurnel, you’s a beggar.’”
“No, Sooz’n, he di’n’t say dat. Dough you says it wid your own sweet lips, I don’ beliebe it.”
“Right, Quashy. You’s allers right,” returned the bride, with a beaming smile. “I made a ’stake—das all. I should hab said dat massa he said, says he, ‘Kurnel Muchbunks,’ says he, ‘I’s a beggar.’”
“Dat was a lie, Sooz’n,” said Quashy, in some surprise.
“I’s afeard it was,” assented Susan, gravely.
“Well, an’ what says de kurnel to dat?” asked the saddened negro, with a sigh.