'Yes, so Joe makes it, and I reckon he's correct.'
'But dar'm de six hunderd you 'cepted fur master Robert, de oder day, in Newbern—dat ain't counted in,' said Joe.
'Well, all told, it's four thousand, besides the note I have given for Phyllis. What do you calculate on to pay it, Preston?'
'I don't know. How can we pay it, Joe?'
'We moight sell de two stills, and some ob de hosses; I reckon dey'd be 'nuff,' replied the black; 'but de raal trubble, master Robert, am what's cummin'; we'm gwine ahind ebery day, 'case we lose money on ebery crop ob turpentine. Nuffin pay now but de corn and de cotton, and we don't raise 'nuff ob dem to do no good.'
I turned to the ledger, and found that it showed what the black said to be true—corn and cotton had made a handsome profit, but turpentine had 'paid a loss.'
'That is because your trees are old, and now yield scarcely anything but scrape,'[1] I said.
'Yas, sar, and 'case dey am so thin like, sense we cleaned out de pore ones, dat it take a hand long time to git 'round 'mong 'em.'
'Why not drop turpentine, and cut shingles from the swamp? You've a fortune in those cypress trees.'
'My negroes are not accustomed to swamp work—it would kill them,' replied Preston.