For reply Aunt Milly simply shrugged her fat shoulders as she went round among her guests and took their bonnets and shawls, which she piled promiscuously on a chest in the corner.
“She’s wuff all she ’ll bring, I boun’ yer,” said Nelse, who was standing almost astride of Rastus’s head. “As for me, Aunt Milly, I’d er sight ruther be put up on de auction-block at de court-house dan ter be sol’ in er slave-mart. Dey hat me on sale in New Orleans fur two weeks han’ runnin’, settin’ bolt up in er long room wid er passel er niggers dey call Cre-owls, en people constant er-lookin’ at me en axin’ my price. Dey feed you on de fat er de lan’ en keep you dressed up, but you never know is yer gwine ter be er ditch-digger ur somebody’s ca’ge-driver. On de block it soon over en you know whar you gwine, en ef er nigger is sharp he kin manage er li’l en git on de good side er some white man he likes.”
“Marse Geo’ge Putnam ’ll buy y’all, you know he will,” remarked Aunt Winnie to Ras-tus, who had sat up on his quilt and been listening eagerly to Nelse. “He ’ll be on’y too glad er de chance ter spite Marse Herbert en rake in some mo’ uv his paw’s old slaves. He already bought up all de lan’ ‘cep’ de li’l patch Marse Herbert’s house stan’ on, en now de house en dis yer fambly er niggers is all dat is lef’ fer ’im ter want. My white folks seh ten yeer ergo dat Marse Geo’ge never will res’ satisfied till his po’ brother is flat on his back destitute. Seem lak he in his glory when he hear dat suppen o’ Marse Herbert’s is up fer sale, so he kin buy it in. I hain’t never seed two sech brothers; dey hain’t ‘change one word in ten yeer; en all kase ole Marse Putnam lef’ Marse Herbert de ol’ home place en want ’im ter hol’ on ter it.”
Uncle Rastus looked up suddenly. His face was full of angles, and his dark eyes flashed in the firelight. “I hope he won’t buy me,” he grunted; “ef I cayn’t stay wid Marse Herbert, de younges’ en po’es’ er ol’ marster’s chillun, I want ter go clean off ’mongst strangers. Dis me er-talkin’!”
The pathos of this remark struck most of the listeners; but Montague, who, for reasons of his own, disliked old Rastus, was unmoved by it. “You needn’t trouble ’bout whar you gwine,” he said, with contemptuous emphasis on the “you,” and he pushed a little black girl to one side that he might watch the effect of his words on Rastus. “De won’t be any big scramblin’ atter you; who want ter buy er nigger des ter git ter bury ‘im dese hard times?”
“Be ershamed, Montague,” remonstrated Aunt Winnie; “be ershamed er yo’se’f!”
“He ain’t got no raisin’!” blurted out Aunt Milly. “Unc’ Rastus ain’t gwine ter listen ter dat black fool.”
“I des know what white folks seh, dat’s all,” insinuated Montague, sullenly. “Marse Herbert come over ter see my marster ter-day, en I heerd um talkin’ in de stable-yard. Marse Herbert ’low he’d been countin’ on payin’ off his pressin’ debt wid whut dis fambly er niggers would fetch, en’d laid his plans ter hol’ on ter his house en go Wes’ en mek money ter pay de intrust en lif’ de mortgage, but des den Une’ Rastus, de mos’ valuables’ one, tuk sick, en now Aunt Milly an’ de chillun won’t fetch ernough ter do much good.”
This announcement produced an impression. Aunt Milly was plainly too much astonished even to protest against the brutality of the revelation. Rastus took a fresh hold on his thin knees with his arms, coughed deeply and painfully, and looked Montague straight in the eyes.
“Is you tellin’ de trufe?” he asked, “Is you?”