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Dey wa'n't no spring chickens, nuther. Dar wur Sheriff Gleason. He sed he'd corned over ter let 'em know how they was gittin' on in Ho'sford. He sed dat ebbery white man in de county 'cept about ten or twelve was inter it, an' dey wuz a gwine ter clean out nigger rule h'yer, shore.
'Bout dat fight?" he continued to a questioner, "oh, yes, dat was one ob de mos' 'markable fights dar's ever been in Ho'sford county. Yer see 'twuz all along uv Ben Slade an' me. Lor' bress yer, how we did fight! 'Pears ter me dat it must hev been nigh 'bout harf a day we wuz at it." "But you didn't lick Ben, did you, Berry?" asked one of the bystanders in surprise. "Lick him?
So I lay, an' t'ought dis ting all ober, an' I tell ye, fellers, 'tain't no use. 'Spose all de white men in Ho'sford is agin us, what's we gwine ter do? We can't lib. Lots o' niggers can't lib a week widout wuk from some white man. 'Sides dat, dey's got de bosses an' de guns, an' de 'sperience; an' what we got?
"Kase dat ar side-hill am twenty-five acres ob de best terbacker groun' in Ho'sford County." "Yer don't say so, Nimbus?" "Dat's jes what I do say, 'Liab, an' dat's de main reason what's made me so stubborn 'bout buyin' dis berry track of lan'. Pears ter me it's jes made fer us. It's all good terbacker lan', most on't de berry best. It's easy clar'd off an' easy wukked.
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