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At the mention of "Marster William," who was looked upon as a great man, but a dead one, the little negroes gathered around, and one of them, our old friend, Bobaway, said, "Oh, Laddy, I hope ’tis Marster William, for Marster Josh’ll be so tickled that he won’t keer if we don’t do nothin’ for a week; and I needn’t milk the little heifer, nuther! Oh, good, good!"

"No, sar, ’cept it’s Marster Josh. I ’longs to him." "Belong to Master Josh, do you? His name isn’t Josh, it is Joshua." "Yes, marster." "Well, then, Bob, if his name is Joshua, what must yours be?" said Raymond. "Dun know, unless it’s Bobaway," answered the negro, with a broad grin. "Bobaway! That’s rich," said Raymond, laughing heartily at the rapid advancement of his pupil.

After a moment’s pause, he again called out, "I say, Bobaway, did it snow last night?" "No, sar, it didn’t snow; it done frosted," said Bob. "Done frosted, hey?" said Raymond. "You’re a smart boy, Bob. What’ll you sell yourself for?"

It was indeed marvelous how much Fanny had seen, and when she came to tell the wonder-stricken negroes of the cataract of Niagara, their amazement knew no bounds. Our friend Bobaway did not fail to ease himself by a round of somersaults, his usual manner of expressing surprise or pleasure.

As they were leaving the yard they passed Bob, who was still limping with the "rheumatiz." Raymond bade Ike stop, while he threw "Bobaway" some pennies. Bob picked them up and looked at them with a rueful face. "What’s the matter, Bobaway?" asked Raymond. "Don’t they suit?" "No, sir," said Bob. "I like fopences; I don’t want nothin’ of these old iron rocks."