I cried out, a yellow and red turban shot across the window, and I beheld in the door the spare countenance of the faithful Lindy.
“Marse Dave,” she cried, “is you feelin' well, honey?”
“Where am I, Lindy?” I asked.
Lindy, like many of her race, knew well how to assume airs of importance. Lindy had me down, and she knew it.
“Marse Dave,” she said, “doan yo' know better'n dat? Yo' know yo' ain't ter talk. Lawsy, I reckon I wouldn't be wuth pizen if she was to hear I let yo' talk.”
Lindy implied that there was tyranny somewhere.
“She?” I asked, “who's she?”
“Now yo' hush, Marse Dave,” said Lindy, in a shrill whisper, “I ain't er-gwine ter git mixed up in no disputation. Ef she was ter hear me er-disputin' wid yo', Marse Dave, I reckon I'd done git such er tongue-lashin'—” Lindy looked at me suspiciously. “Yo'-er allus was powe'rful cute, Marse Dave.”
Lindy set her lips with a mighty resolve to be silent. I heard some one coming along the gallery, and then I saw Nick's tall figure looming up behind her.
“Davy,” he cried.