“I say there,” again vociferated the planter, “get out of my yard.”
“I’m afraid we will have to go right through the house,” soliloquized Beau.
“I’m d--d if you do,” exclaimed the planter.
Beau now looked up for the first time, accosting the planter with a courteous—
“Good day, sir.”
“Good d---l, sir; you are committing a trespass.”
“My dear friend,” replied Beau, “public duty, imperative—no trespass—surveying railroad—State job—your house in the way. Must take off one corner, sir,—the kitchen part—least value—leave the parlour—delightful room to see the cars rush by twelve times a day—make you accessible to market.”
Beau, turning to the nigger, cried out—
“Put the pole against the kitchen door again—so, 85.”
“I say, stranger,” interrupted the planter, “I guess you ain’t dined. As dinner’s up, suppose you come in, and we’ll talk the matter over.”