“Indeed, indeed—there now!” she suddenly added, with a stamp of her foot, “I told you so!”
When? When did she tell him so? That’s another reason I could never make a woman out.
It was then that Charley heard the sound of heavy footsteps crunching through the sand, and, turning his head, saw through the twilight an approaching figure almost at his elbow.
Alice, like most, though not all of her sex, was, as I have mentioned before, a woman. Raising her placid face and serene eyes, she pointed out to her companion, with the tip of her parasol, a gull that hurried above them in zigzag, onward flight. “Yes,” continued she,—or seemed to continue,—“she seems to be belated. I wonder where she will roost to-night? On some distant island, I suppose.”
“Sam, is that you? Sam is one of my men,—one of the best on my farm. Sam, this is Miss Alice—Miss Alice Carter.”
“Sarvant, mistiss,” said Samuel, hastily removing his hat and bowing, not without a certain rugged grace; while at the same time, by a backward obeisance of his vast foot, he sent rolling riverward a peck of shining sand.
“Well, Sam, any news from the farm?”
“Lor’, mahrster, d’yar never is no news over d’yar! I most inginerally comes over to Elminton when a-sarchin’ for de news.”
“And you want to make me believe that you walk over here every night for the news, do you? Sam is courting one of Uncle Tom’s women,” added Charley, addressing Alice. “I am in daily expectation of having him ask my consent to his nuptials.”
Sam threw back his head and gave one of those serene, melodious laughs (as though a French horn chuckled), the like of which, as I have said before, will probably never again be heard on this earth. “Lor’ bless me, young mistiss, what’s gone and put dat notion ’bout my courtin’ in Marse Charley head? I always tells ’em as how a nigger k’yahnt do no better’n walk in de steps o’ de mahrster, and Marse Charley and me is nigh onto one age; and Marse Charley ain’t married, leastwise not yet.”