'You know what they are, don't you, Jim?' said the Colonel, laughing, and taking no notice of Jim's breach of decorum in wedging his black ideas into a white conversation.
'Yas, I does dat,' said the darky, grinning.
'Jim,' said the Colonel, 'you're a prince of a nigger, but you talk too much; ask me for something to-day, and I reckon you'll get it; but go now, and tell Chloe (the cook) to get us some dinner.'
The darky left, and, excusing myself, I soon followed suit.
I went to my room, laid down on the lounge, and soon fell asleep. It was nearly five o'clock when a slight noise in the apartment awoke me, and, looking up, I saw the Colonel quietly seated by the fire, smoking a cigar. His feet were elevated above his head, and he appeared absorbed in no very pleasant reflections.
'How is the sick boy, Colonel?' I asked.
'It's all over with him, my friend. He died easy; but 'twas very painful to me, for I feel I have done him wrong.'
'How so?'
'I was away all summer, and that cursed Moye sent him to the swamp to tote for the shinglers. It killed him.'
'Then you are not to blame,' I replied.