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"So Dick am rich, am he, honey? an you am poor? Tut! tut! dat is too bad for de son of ole Marser Tom!" said the old crone, after the lapse of half an hour in which both tongues had been running pretty rapidly. "He is," said Crawford, his face expressing no strong sense of satisfaction at the recollection.
"Dat may be," replied Pompey; "but now you is only thirty years old, dat's what marser says you is to be." "I know I is more den dat," responded the man. "I can't help nuffin' about dat," returned Pompey; "but when you get into de market and any one ax you how old you is, and you tell um you is forty or forty-five, marser will tie you up and cut you all to pieces.
And I don't think as I should a-been found yet; 'cause it was a funny kind of life, that run-a-way life, a dodging of the man-hunters; but you see, marser, I sort o' pined arter the child meaning Miss Sybil, who was then about four years old. And, moreover, it was fotch to me by a secret friend o' mine, as the child was likewise a pining arter me.
Marser will tan his jacket for him nicely when he gets him." "You are a trustworthy fellow, I imagine," continued the farmer. "Oh yes, sir; marser puts a heap of confidence in dis nigger." And the slaves travelled on. When the one on foot was fatigued they would change positions, the other being tied and driven on foot. This they called "ride and tie."
How old is you?" addressing himself to a man who, from appearance, was not less than forty. "If I live to see next corn-planting time I will either be forty-five or fifty-five, I don't know which." "Dat may be," replied Pompey; "But now you is only thirty years old; dat is what marser says you is to be." "I know I is more den dat," responded the man.
"Now, sure as the world, honey, you done heard somefin 'bout de poor young marser? Is he come to an accident, honey?" inquired the man very uneasily. "Who?" questioned Nora vaguely. "The young marser, honey; Mr. Herman Brudenell, chile!" "What of him?" cried Nora a sharp new anxiety added to her woe. "Why, law, honey, aint I just been a-telling of you?
"Where do you live, my boy?" asked a white man of the slave, as he passed a white house with green blinds. "Jist up de road, sir," was the answer. "That's a fine pig." "Yes, sir, marser like dis choat berry much." And the Negro drove on as if he was in great haste. In this way he and the pig travelled more than fifty miles before they reached the Ohio river.
Snyder left the ground in company with Carlton and Huckelby, and the three dined together in the overseer's dwelling. "Well," said Joe, after the three white men were out of hearing, "Marser Snyder bin try hesef to-day." "Yes," replied Ned; "he want to show de strange gentman how good he can preach." "Dat's a new sermon he gib us to-day," said Sandy.
At last, one evening, she came out of her room rather late, and was walking on the piazza for fresh air. She passed near Carlton's room, and heard the voice of Sam. The negro had just come in to get the young man's boots, and had stopped, as he usually did, to have some talk. "I wish," said Sam, "dat Marser Carlton an Miss Georgy would get married; den, speck, we'd have good times."
"Now," said he, addressing himself to the company, "I is de chap dat is to get you ready for de Orleans market, so dat you will bring marser a good price. How old is you?" addressing himself to a man not less than forty. "If I live to see next sweet-potato-digging time, I shall be either forty or forty-five, I don't know which."
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