“No, Massa Bob,” joined in Juno, who was knocking out the ashes from her pipe on the head of the fire-dog—“no, Massa Bob you’se munno ’moke. ’Spects, ef you’se do, you find de way tur constollaton, dat ole Clump talk of, cum tru much tribble-laison—he! he! he!”
I had to laugh at the old woman’s wit. As for Clump, he rubbed his shins and “yaw-ha’d” over his wife’s speech for five minutes.
As I was going off to bed, Juno called me back in a hesitating way, and said in a low, frightened voice: “Massa Bob, sum-how dis ole woman ees ’feared ’bout ter’morrow. You’se gwine sure?”
“Of course, Juno,” I replied. “And what are you afraid of? I would not stay at home for ten pounds.”
“Dis chile’s sorry—sorry,” she continued, “but de Lor’ ees my strong ’an my sheel.” She was speaking very slowly, and had bent over the fire to rake the ashes together. She went on muttering some more of the Bible texts she always called on in any perplexity, until a new idea flashed to her from some uncovered ember, and she turned quickly, laughing in a low, shrill way, “He! he! he! woy’se ole Juno afeer’d? He! he! he! ’spects it on’y debbil dat has tole lies to dis poor ole nigger when she’s ’sleep.”
Chapter Eleven.
A Memorable Cruise commences.
We had nearly reached our cutter before the sun lifted its yellowish, red sphere, with just such an expression as a jolly, fat, old alderman accustomed to good cheer might present, on raising his head from the folds of a comfortable night’s pillow.