“Lost the dockyments?” said the old man.
“No, here they are,” said Peter, handing the papers containing the weights of his cotton, to his father, who began to read, partly aloud, and partly to himself:
“ ‘Eight bags of cotton—350—400—348—550—317—15½ cents a pound—sold to Jonathan Barker.’ Very good sale,” said he; “I knowed you’d fix things rite, Peter.”
The waggon by this time had reached the house, and turning to Bob, the old man told him to put the molasses in the cellar, and the sugar and coffee in the house.
“Ain’t got no ’lasses, Massa,” said Bob, grinning from ear to ear.
“No,” said Peter, “we havn’t got none; we lost it.”
“Lost it! How on airth could you lose a barrel of molasses?”
“We never had it,” said Bob.
“Heavens and airth!” said the old man, turning first to Bob, and then to Peter, “what do you mean? What do you mean? What, what, w-h-a-t in the d-e-v-i-l do you mean?”
“Gracious, Marster! Mr. Wilkins, don’t swar, so,” said his wife, by way of helping Peter out.