“Marse Dave!” he cried.
“Hush,” I answered, “and follow me.”
He came after me, wondering, a little way into the grove, where I stopped.
“Benjy,” I said, “do you know any of the servants here?”
“Lawsy, Marse Dave, I reckon I knows 'em,—some of 'em,” he answered with a grin.
“You talk to them?”
“Shucks, no, Marse Dave,” he replied with a fine scorn, “I ain't no hand at dat ar nigger French. But I knows some on 'em, and right well too.”
“How?” I demanded curiously.
Benjy looked down sheepishly at his feet. He was standing pigeon-toed.
“I done c'ressed some on 'em, Marse Dave,” he said at length, and there was a note of triumph in his voice.