“Hold on,” I said, “You never told me whether you married the widow or not.”
He looked at me in undisguised astonishment—“Law, law, law,” he said, “white folks got such curis ideas. In course I did—marrid her dat night an’ tuck ’er home de naixt day; ain’t I bin tellin’ you whut er hard time I had gettin’ konsolashun frum dat ar ’oman?”
He sawed vigorously away for awhile, but I could see he wished to tell something else. Finally I said:
“Well, go on, I’m waiting.”
He turned around quickly, laid down his saw, laughed, and said: “How de wurl did you know dar was ennything else? Bless my life, suh, but de very look ob er white man am er search warrant to de nigger’s soul. Ef you bleegter hab it, heah it am,” he said, as he looked slyly around: “I hadn’t been married to dat ’oman but two years befo’ I had to run fur er offis, too.
“What office?” I asked.
He grinned sheepishly.
“Patriark ob de Santerfercashun,” he said, “I beat Unk Peter fur dat offis, an’ got eben wid ’im at his own game.
“Lemme tell you, chile,” he added, impressively, “two years ob konsolashun frum er widder will make a dead man or a Patriark outen ’most ennybody,” and he resumed his sawing with a vigor.
