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From two of the staterooms came sounds which plainly confessed that the occupants were having a bad night of it. "How is the lady passenger?" Thurstane could not help whispering. "Guess she's asleep, sah," returned the negro. "Fus-rate sailor, sah. But them greasers is having tough times," he grinned. "Can't abide the sea, greasers can't, sah."
"Whar is yer letter?" asked Uncle Braddock. "Oh, 'tain't writ yit," said Aunt Matilda. "I wants some o' you uns to write it fur me. Kin any o' you youngsters write writin'?" "Yes, ma'am," said John William Webster. "Greg'ry kin write fus-rate. He's been ter school mor'n a month." "You shet up!" cried Gregory, indignantly. "Ise been to school mor'n dat. Ise been free or four weeks.
I was a slave in Carlina, an' I had a good massa, Miss; a fus-rate man, but he done tuk sick an' died, an' then wh-e-ew," and he gave a long, low whistle, "thar cum sich a time thar; de ole woman she done no nuthin' 'bout de biznis, an' de big son he sell all de niggers an' get all de money, an' dars whar my trubbel begin.
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