“And where are you bound for now, Mr. Todd?”
“Canal,” said Mr. Todd, seeming a little subdued.
“Going to ship market stuff to Norfolk?”
“You're a clean guesser,” grumbled Mr. Todd. “Cleanest I ever see. I was goin' to take it there myself.”
“I see. Norfolk's blockaded. You're going to take a boat load by the Swamp Canal. Use your own mules, maybe. Good idea.”
“Jemima!” said Mr. Todd, “you're a clean guesser.”
The old negro sat on a barrel, looking down at me, so bent over that his solemn, wrinkled face, with its fringe of dusty grey beard, was near his knees. He gave a soft chuckle and motioned to the two men in front.
“Marse Tommy, he gettin' he min' wukkin'. Oomm! He studyin'! Don' git no fish 'way fom him. No-o-o!”
He began to hug his knees with pleasure at thinking how clever Mr. Todd was about to be; and so we were believing very earnestly, both of us, each in the greater brilliancy of his own hero.
“Dey's oodles an' oodles o' folks meek out dey play kiyi wi' Marse Tommy, an' hit tu'n out quar. I don' know, but hit peahs to me dey's pow'ful misfo'tu-nate.”