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'My honabul 'ponent, s's he, 'Mist' Carewe, rep'sent in hisseif de 'ristocratic slave-ownin' class er de Souf, do' he live in de Nawf an' 'ploy free labor; yit it sca'sely to be b'lieve dat any er you would willin'ly trus' him wid de powah er life an' death ovah yo' own chillun, w'ich is virchously what de slave-ownah p'sess. "Missy, you jass oughter see yo' pa den!
"Convicted!" snorted Steve. "I heerd old Steve Brayton had hired him to waylay me, 'n' I swar I believe hit's so." "Well, he won't hev to give him more'n a chaw o' tobaccer now," said Gabe. "He'll come purty near doin' hit hisseif, I reckon, ef he gits the chance." "Well, he kin git the chance ef I gits my leetle account settled with ole Steve Brayton fust.
"He's just gotter he careful not t' over-eat hisseif, as I was savin'. Yeh see, people what come in t' th' show gives him buns, an' lollies an' things, an' if he's a glutton he' bound t' he knocked out." "What else does he do?" "Oh, prowls round in the cage." "Anything else?" "An' scratches hisself." "Yes." "An' growls." "That seems easy." "Well, it all depends.
Now de doctor's jes tearin' his shirt to git her out, he's so skeered she'll do what she says." Sandy laughed in spite of himself, and Aunt Melvy wagged her head knowingly. "He needn't pester hisseif 'bout dat. Now Mr. Carter's 'bout to die, an' you's shut up in jail, she's done turnin' her 'tention on Mr. Sid Gray.
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