Slosson gave a start of astonishment at this.
“Why, ain't he hateful?” he exclaimed aghast. “See here, young feller, that's no kind of a way fo' you to talk to a man who has riz his ten children!”
Again Bunker swore, while Jim told Slosson to make haste. This popular clamor served to recall the tavernkeeper to a sense of duty.
“Ma'am, like I should tote you, or will you walk?” he inquired, and reaching out his hand took hold of Betty.
“I'll walk,” said the girl quickly, shrinking from the contact.
“Keep close at my heels. Bunker, you tuck along after her with the boy.”
“What about this nigger?” asked the fourth man.
“Fetch him along with us,” said Slosson. They turned from the road while he was speaking and entered a narrow path that led off through the woods, apparently in the direction of the river. A moment later Betty heard the carriage drive away. They went onward in silence for a little time, then Slosson spoke over his shoulder.
“Yes, ma'am, I've riz ten children but none of 'em was like him—I trained 'em up to the minute!” Mr. Slosson seemed to have passed completely under the spell of his domestic recollections, for he continued with just a touch of reminiscent sadness in his tone. “There was all told four Mrs. Slossons: two of 'em was South Carolinians, one was from Georgia, and the last was a widow lady out of east Tennessee. She'd buried three husbands and I figured we could start perfectly even.”
The intrinsic fairness of this start made its strong appeal. Mr. Slosson dwelt upon it with satisfaction. “She had three to her credit, I had three to mine; neither could crow none over the other.”