Old Dick, meanwhile, was carrying out his share in the programme.
“Well, I s’pose I’ll have to feed you,” said he to the flea-bitten, surveying him from head to hock.
No true negro feels any doubt whatever as to his words being perfectly intelligible to horse, mule, cow, or dog.
“Ef ever I see a poor-folks’ horse, you is one. Git up! git up! don’t you hear me? You needn’t be a-standin’ here a-thinkin’ Dick gwine to ride you to de stable. Aha! you hear dat word stable, did you? Bound for you! You been d’yar befo’, and you know d’yar’s corn in dat ’ar stable; and a heap mo’, besides you, know dat d’yar is pervisions a-layin’ around here, and dey ain’t horses neither, nor yet mules. Git up, I tell you! Ain’t you got no more sense, old as you is, than to be a-snatchin’ at dry grass like dat? But Lor’, Dick don’t blame you! No, honey, Dick ain’t got a word agin you. Who is you, any way, I ax you dat? Is you blood? Is you quality? Dat’s what’s de matter, ef you believe me. You needn’t be a-shakin’ your head; you can’t tell Dick nothin’. Anybody can see you ain’t kin to nobody. ’M’h’m! yes, chile! you needn’t say a word, Dick knows dat kind far as he can see ’em, be dey man or beast. Howsomever, Dick don’t mount no sich. Nigger property is too unsartin for dat. Nebberdeless, Marse Charles, bein’ as how he belongs to his self, he mought. Nebberdeless, you fotch him home, and pretty is as pretty does, dat’s de way old Dick talks it. Polly! Polly!” shouted he to his wife, the cook, as he passed the kitchen door; “Polly! git up, gal! Marse Charles done come and want he supper. I would say,” continued he, not content with the colloquial phrases in which he had announced his young master’s arrival and the state of his appetite,—“I would say, Polly,”—and enveloped in darkness as he was, and invisible even to his spouse, the old man threw himself into an impressive pose, as he always did when about to adorn his language with phrases caught up from the conversation of his master and his guests,—“I would say de Prodigy Son have arrove, and he as ravenous as de fatted calf.” Hearing Polly bustling about within the kitchen: “Polly,” inquired he, in a stately voice, “did you hearken to what I rubserved?”
“I hear you, Dick.”
“But did you make me out, chile, dat’s de pint, did you make me out?”
“G’long, man, and put dat horse in de stable. Marse Charley want he supper, course he do. What’s de use o’ talkin’ about fat calves, when you know as well as I does d’yar ain’t no sich a thing in de kitchen. Marse Charley want he supper, I know dat, and I’se gittin’ ready to cook it fast as I can.”
“I b’lieve you. Well, put my name in de pot, chile.” And the old man went his way. “Well,” said he, soliloquizing upon the much-longed-for return of his young master, “dey tell me chickens, like horses [curses?], always does come home to roost—git up, I tell you!—’cep’n onless dey meets a free nigger in de road, den good-by chickens—for you’re gwine to leave us.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
“Why, what’s all this, Uncle Dick?” exclaimed Charley, as that venerable servitor entered, with hospitably beaming countenance, bearing a tray. “Roast oysters! why, this cold turkey was enough for a prince.” And he brushed from his yellow moustache the foam of a glass of Bass’s ale.