“I didn't say so, sir.”
“You're a rum one,” said he, laughing again, and he disappeared into the house.
That day, when Breed brought me my dinner on my gallery, he did not speak of a visitor. You may be sure I did not mention the circumstance. But Breed always told me the outside news.
“Dey's gittin' ready fo' a big fight, Marse Dave,” said he. “Mister Moultrie in the fo't in de bay, an' Marse Gen'l Lee tryin' for to boss him. Dey's Rebels. An' Marse Admiral Parker an' de King's reg'ments fixin' fo' to tek de fo't, an' den Charlesto'n. Dey say Mister Moultrie ain't got no mo' chance dan a treed 'possum.”
“Why, Breed?” I asked. I had heard my father talk of England's power and might, and Mister Moultrie seemed to me a very brave man in his little fort.
“Why!” exclaimed the old negro. “You ain't neber read no hist'ry books. I knows some of de gentlemen wid Mister Moultrie. Dey ain't no soldiers. Some is fine gentlemen, to be suah, but it's jist foolishness to fight dat fleet an' army. Marse Gen'l Lee hisself, he done sesso. I heerd him.”
“And he's on Mister Moultrie's side?” I asked.
“Sholy,” said Breed. “He's de Rebel gen'l.”
“Then he's a knave and a coward!” I cried with a boy's indignation. “Where did you hear him say that?” I demanded, incredulous of some of Breed's talk.
“Right heah in dis house,” he answered, and quickly clapped his hand to his mouth, and showed the whites of his eyes. “You ain't agwineter tell dat, Marse Dave?”