“You are mistaken,” said the Judge, gravely, as he knocked the ash from his pipe. “I will give it to you. And what sort of freedom is it that you want, Micajah?”
The old slave scratched his head and swayed uncomfortably.
“Why, des freedom, Ole Marse.”
“What kind of freedom, Micajah? What is it that you want? Speak out, for I am going to give you your freedom for a whole month, and you shall have all that you want to go with it,” added the Judge.
Uncle Cage gasped. The enormity of the idea was too much for him.
“And here were Ole Marse des er-talkin’ ’bout hit lack hit were er chaw er terbaccy—des es easy an’ quiet lack,” said Micajah, afterwards, in confidence.
“Well,” queried the Judge, “what do you want as a free nigger, Micajah?”
Micajah scraped the dust with his foot; twice he made a little mound of it with his toes and twice smoothed it out.
“I don’t wanter be no ’free nigger,’ Ole Marse. I des wants freedom.”
“Well, go on; don’t be afraid; you shall have what you want.”