“You are a wicked, hardened old sinner!” declared the old lady, vehemently.
“Nor, I ain't, mist'is; I clar' I ain't,” protested Jabez, with unruffled front.
“You treat your wives dreadfully.”
“Nor, I don't, mist'is. You ax 'em ef I does. Ef I did, dee would n' be so many of 'em anxious t' git me. Now, would dee? I can start in an' beat a' one o' dese young bloods aroin' heah, now.” He spoke with pride.
“I believe that is so, and I cannot understand it. And before one of them is in her grave you are courting another. It is horrid—an old—Methuselah like you.” She paused to take breath, and Jabez availed himself of the pause.
“Dat 's de reason I got t' do things in a kind o' hurry—I ain' no Methuselum. I got no time t' wait.”
“Jabez,” said Mrs. Meriwether, seriously, “tell me how you manage to fool all these women.”
The old man pondered for a moment.
“Well, I declar,' mist'is, I hardly knows how. Dee wants to be fooled. I think it is becuz dee wants t' see what de urrs marry me fer, an' what dee done lef' me. Woman is mighty curi-some folk.”
I have often wondered since if this was really the reason.