“Where's Mr. Clarence?
“Young Masr? I'll fotch him, Miss Jinny. He jes come home f'um seein' that thar trottin' hose he's gwine to race nex' week.”
Ned, who had tied Calhoun and was holding his mistress's bridle, sniffed. He had been Colonel Carvel's jockey in his younger days.
“Shucks!” he said contemptuously. “I hoped to die befo' the day a gemman'd own er trottah, Jinny. On'y runnin' hosses is fit fo' gemmen.”
“Ned,” said Virginia, “I shall be eighteen in two weeks and a young lady. On that day you must call me Miss Jinny.”
Ned's face showed both astonishment and inquiry.
“Jinny, ain't I nussed you always? Ain't I come upstairs to quiet you when yo' mammy ain't had no power ovah yo'? Ain't I cooked fo' yo', and ain't I followed you everywheres since I quit ridin' yo' pa's bosses to vict'ry? Ain't I one of de fambly? An' yit yo' ax me to call yo' Miss Jinny?”
“Then you've had privileges enough,” Virginia answered. “One week from to-morrow you are to say 'Miss Jinny.'”
“I'se tell you what, Jinny,” he answered mischievously, with an emphasis on the word, “I'se call you Miss Jinny ef you'll call me Mistah Johnson. Mistah Johnson. You aint gwinter forget? Mistah Johnson.”
“I'll remember,” she said. “Ned,” she demanded suddenly, “would you like to be free?”