“Yes, suh, an’ better, too. ‘Twuz befo’ we fit de duil wid Jedge Carrington. I know dat, ‘cause dat’s what we shoot him ‘bout—‘cause he co’te Miss Ailsy an’ cut we out.”
“Damn your memory! Thirty years! I could dance all night then—every night in the week—and now I can hardly mount my horse without getting the thumps.”
George Washington, affected by his reminiscences, declared that he had heard one of the ladies saying, “just the other day,” what “a fine portly gentleman” he was.
The Major brightened.
“Did you hear that? George Washington, if you tell me a lie I’ll set you free!” It was his most terrible threat, used only on occasions of exceptional provocation.
George vowed that no reward could induce him to be guilty of such an enormity, and followed it up by so skilful an allusion to the progressing youth of his master that the latter swore he was right, and that he could dance better than he could at thirty, and to prove it executed, with extraordinary agility for a man who rode at twenty stone, a pas seul which made the floor rock and set the windows and ornaments to rattling as if there had been an earthquake. Suddenly, with a loud “Whew,” he flung himself into an arm-chair, panting and perspiring. “It’s you, sir,” he gasped—“you put me up to it.”
“Nor, suh; tain me, Marse Nat—I’s tellin’ you de truf,” asserted George, moved to defend himself.
“You infernal old rascal, it is you,” panted the Major, still mopping his face—“you have been running riot so long you need regulation—I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll marry and give you a mistress to manage you—yes, sir, I’ll get married right away. I know the very woman for you—she’ll make you walk chalk!”
For thirty years this had been his threat, so George was no more alarmed than he was at the promise of being sold, or turned loose upon the world as a free man. He therefore inquired solemnly,
“Marse Nat, le’ me ax you one thing—you ain’ thinkin’ ‘bout givin’ me that ole one for a mistis is you?”