“Fo' de Lawd's sake,” he managed to articulate finally, “am dis sho' yo', Massa Jack?”
Keith, to whom all colored people were much alike, laughed at the expression on the negro's face.
“I reckon yer guessed the name, all right, boy. Were you the cook of the Diamond L?”
“No, sah, I nebber cooked no di'onds. I'se ol' Neb, sah.”
“What?”
“Yes, sah, I'se de boy dat libbed wid ol' Missus Caton durin' de wah. I ain't seen yo', Massa Jack, sence de day we buried yo' daddy, ol' Massa Keith. But I knowed yo' de berry minute I woke up. Sho', yo' 'members Neb, sah?”
It came to Keith now in sudden rush of memory—the drizzling rain in the little cemetery, the few neighbors standing about, a narrow fringe of slaves back of them, the lowering of the coffin, and the hollow sound of earth falling on the box; and Neb, his Aunt Caton's house servant, a black imp of good humor, who begged so hard to be taken back with him to the war. Why, the boy had held his stirrup the next morning when he rode away. The sudden rush of recollection seemed to bridge the years, and that black face became familiar, a memory of home.
“Of course, I remember, Neb,” he exclaimed, eagerly, “but that's all years ago and I never expected to see you again. What brought you West and got you into this hole?”
The negro hitched up onto the bench, the whites of his eyes conspicuous as he stared uneasily about—he had a short, squatty figure, with excessively broad shoulders, and a face of intense good humor.
“I reck'n dat am consider'ble ob a story, Massa Jack, de circumlocution ob which would take a heap ob time tellin',” he began soberly. “But it happened 'bout dis away. When de Yankees come snoopin' long de East Sho'—I reck'n maybe it des a yeah after dat time when we done buried de ol' Co'nel—dey burned Missus Caton's house clah to de groun'; de ol' Missus was in Richmond den, an' de few niggers left jest natchally took to de woods. I went into Richmond huntin' de ol' Missus, but, Lawd, Massa Jack, I nebber foun' nuthin' ob her in dat crowd. Den an' officer man done got me, an' put me diggin' in de trenches. Ef dat's what wah am, I sho' don' want no mo' wah. Den after dat I jest natchally drifted. I reckon I libbed 'bout eberywhar yo' ebber heard ob, fo' dar want no use ob me goin' back to de East Sho'. Somebody said dat de West am de right place fo' a nigger, an' so I done headed west.”