“Well, maybe it is,” said Tom. “Taste it and see, Rad.”
Rad did as he was bidden, but instantly made a terrible face and looked reproachfully at the young inventor.
“Is it molasses, Rad?” asked Tom, trying hard to keep a straight face.
“No, sah, dat ain’t no molasses. It’s de worst stuff dat dis niggah evah tasted, an’ Ah doan want no mo’ of it. Guess Ah’ll have to take a good swig o’ watah to git de taste outen ma mouf,” and Rad made for the water bucket.
“Live and learn,” laughed Mr. Damon, his anxiety over the leak forgotten for the moment. “Bless you, Rad, things aren’t always what they seem.”
“Ah believes you-all now, Mistah Damon,” said the old negro, as he ruefully scrubbed at his lips in an effort to get rid of the taste. “Nex’ time Ah lets some odder fool niggah do de samplin’.”
That night at the farmhouse, while the others of the company were chatting about the events of the day, Mr. Damon stepped to the window to take note of the weather, as he was accustomed to do. As he reached the window he gave a startled exclamation.
“Bless my fire insurance!” he cried. “There’s a big fire. Looks as though it might be in Copperhead, only it’s hardly far enough away for that.”
At his words, the others jumped up and crowded to the window.
“I should say it isn’t as far as Copperhead!” ejaculated Tom. “Why, that fire is close, and getting closer every minute!” and he dashed out of the house, followed by the others.