Daddy Mose hoed two or three turns vigorously, and then looked the little imp straight in the face.
“Dat des lack dese free-born-sence-de-war niggers! Yo’ po’ little mizerbul fool, does yo’ know who er black cat am?”
Solly winced. “He’s wuth er quarter, fur Misser Lingum at de sto’ he ’low he gimme one if I kills hit an’ fotch de cat ter him. He say he done pay fur de killin’ er dat cat free times, but hit allus turns up ergin.”
“’Cou’se hit gwine kim back; er black cat allus do,” said Daddy Mose. “Hain’t no tree ebber sprouted er chunk dat’ll kill er black cat, lessen you does hit nine times, an’ I lay yo’ gwine be powerful sorry if you does hit den.”
“But I’se gwine hang him wid er rope!” retorted the imp, with a grin.
“Yo’ Sol’mun Hightower Dewberry!—Yo’ little black rapscallion!—Hain’t got de fear er debil er man! What you’ Mammy been er doin’ dat she hain’t larn yo’ better? Des er gwine out in de worl’ an’ er fetching in bad luck lack de mud on you’ foots! I lay I larn yo’ how ter hang er black cat—I larn yo’!”
There was a fruitless plunge and a wild yell, with very spicy punctuations. Solly’s mother, from the tree where she was washing, grunted her endorsement, and, his wrath being appeased and his audience increased by two or three, for it was the noon hour, Daddy Mose took his seat on the washbench and fanned himself with his hat.
“De free niggers is mighty big fools,” he mused, “des er flingin’ out de sense er dey daddies and mammies es fas’ es dey put book larnin’ in; an’ de chillen—de po’, impident free chillen!—dey hain’t lack white folks, an’ dey hain’t lack de niggers uster was—dey des hain’t nuffin!”
There was hardly a unanimous endorsement of the assertion, but it was accorded a respectful hearing, and the quiescent state of his listeners and his “chaw er stingy green” at last rendered Daddy Mose pleasantly reminiscent.
“Ebber telled yo’ all how ’Lish Stone fetched de ten-year bad luck on hisse’f?” he queried, thoughtfully.