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Linkum is de Moses we're all a- lookin' ter. At all our meetin's we'se a-prayin' for him and to him. He's de Lord's right han' to lead we alls out ob bondage." "Well, I swear to you I'm one of his men." "I knows you is, and I'se a-gwine to help you, houn's or no houn's. Keep up de run a right smart ways, and you'se'll come ter a big flat stun'. Stan' dar in de water, an I'll be dar wid help."
Den it was washed off wid salt, an' de nigger was put right back in de fiel'. Dey was whupped fer runnin' away. Sometimes dey run afte' 'em fer days an nights with dem big old blood houn's. Heap o' people doan b'lieve dis. But I does, 'cause I seed it myse'f. "I'se lived here forty-five years, an' chipped turpentine mos' all my life since I was free. "I'se had three wives.
"When he's a no-'count varmint," said the woman, "without any especial warmth, a-traipsin' along of scalawags and moonshiners and a-layin' on his back pizen 'ith co'n whiskey, and a-pesterin' folks with a pack o' hungry, triflin' houn's to feed!"
She didn't hab no min' for nottin', she was dat flabbergastuated. "She t'ink she run erway; but she wouldn't git far befo' Mars' Colby be atter her wid de houn's. Dar ain't no place to run to, an' she ain't got no mammy, so she run tuh mine," said Uncle Rufus, shaking his head. "An' my mammy was a wise ol' woman.
This houn's neck is rubbed raw. God only knows what he's suffered in mind an' body. A man that would treat a dog that way ain't fitten to own one.
He's got a mortgage on everything here but the houn's and the house cat, an' he's tryin' to see if he cyant kill me with his bug-juice an' save a suit in Chancery. I'm goin' to sen' off an' see if I cyant git another bran' of it, suh." Edward Conway was the type of the Southerner wrecked financially and morally by the war.
Yuh wudn't 'member thar was a feller back here chewin' his fingers off worryin' about yuh . . . an' workin' the shart offen his back an' gittin' thin fer the fambly, an' not even a horse to git about. . . . Nobody but a bunch o' roughnecks an' houn's 'poligisin' tuh yuh, Juno, fer callin' them critters houn's. They're c'yutes, that's wot they are.
This houn's neck is rubbed raw. God only knows what he's suffered in mind an' body. A man that would treat a dog that way ain't fitten to own one.
Once' m' pappy run away an' Marse Jim got de blood houn's afte' him, an' catched him up 'fo he could git fur, an' dat day he lay him 'cross de barrel, an' whupped him frum sun up til sun down. When he quit off, m' pappy couldn' talk no more'n a whisper sca'cely. "Pattyrollers, I heard of 'em allright 'cause dey sho' would git you iffen y' went abroad widout a pass frum Marse Jim.
"I kin see no other chance, Cap'n, than ter take the water: we may bamfoozle the houn's a bit, if thar's good wadin'." "Nor I." I had thought of the same plan. "If we hed hed bowies, we mouter fit the dogs whar we air, but yer see we hain't; an' I kin tell by thar growl thar ain't less nor a dozen on 'em."
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