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I gave my word that not so much as a rumor of the person Mudlow had reached me. My friend expressed surprise. It was now that the black boy Tom came up with the desired hat. Tom made his approach with a queer backward and forward shuffle, crooning to himself the while: "Rain come wet me, sun come dry me. Take keer, white man, don't come nigh me."
It's that same night when Grief has drug himse'f home to supper, he says to his wife, 'Thar's nothin' like exercise, an' then counsels that lady over his corn pone an' chitlins to take in washin' like I relates." We walked on in mute consideration of the extraordinary indolence of the worthless Mudlow. Our silence obtained for full ten minutes.
"'I'm awake, says Grief. "'Well, why don't you get outen the rain? "'I'm all wet now an' the rain don't do no hurt, says Grief. "An' this yere lazy Grief Mudlow keeps on layin' thar. It ain't no time when the branch begins to raise; the water crawls up about Grief's feet. So his pard shouts at him some more: "'Whoopee, you Grief ag'in! he says.
I sort o' orig'nates the notion that I'll go swarmin' about permiscus this mornin' for a hour or so, an cirk'late my blood, an' you-all is welcome to attach yourse'f to the scheme. Thar's nothin' like exercise, that a-way, as Grief Mudlow allows when he urges his wife to take in washin'. You've done heard of Grief Mudlow, the laziest maverick in Tennessee?"
Tom smiled toothfully, yet in confident fashion, as one who knows his master and is not afraid. "So you never hears of Grief Mudlow?" he continued, as we strolled abroad on our walk. "I reckons mebby you has, for they shore puts Grief into a book once, commemoratin' of his laziness. How lazy is he? Well, son, he could beat Mexicans an' let 'em deal.
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