“Nor, suh,” said Martha, quickly; “I ain’ feared o’ dat. He know better ’n dat now—sence you an’ my gran’mother got hold o’ him; but”—her knot came untied, and suddenly she gained courage—“what I want to ’sult you about is dis: I want to ax you,—is Mr. Spickit—’lowed to write ‘whiskey’ down in my sto’-book?” She clutched her book, and gazed at Steve as if the fate of the universe depended on the answer.
Steve took the book and glanced over it. It was a small, greasy account-book, such as was kept by persons who dealt at the little country-stores about the County. Many of the items were simply “Mdse.,” but on the last two or three pages, the item “Whiskey” appeared with somewhat undue frequency.
“What do you mean?” asked Steve.
“Well, you see, it’s disaway. Jerry, he gits his whiskey at Mr. Spickit’s—some o’ it—an’ he say Mr. Spickit shell write hit down on de book dat way, an——”
“Oh! You don’t want him to have it?” said Steve, a light breaking on him.
“Nor, suh—dat ain’t it. I don’ mine he havin’ de whiskey—I don’ mine he gittin’ all he want—cuz I know he gwine drink it. But I don’ want him to have it put down dat away on de book. I is a member o’ de chutch, and I don’ want whiskey writ all over my book—dat’s hit!”
“Oh!” Steve smiled acquiescingly.
“An’ I done tell Jerry so; an’ I done tell Mr. Spickit so, an’ ax him not to do it.”
“Well, what do you want?”
“I wants him to put it down ‘merchandise,’ dat’s all; an’ I come to ax you, can’t you meck Jerry do it dat away.”